


The Advantages of Caring

by jaxington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Swaplock, brief Molly/Irene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 81,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxington/pseuds/jaxington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At age ten he is a disappointment to his brother, more interested in dead things than deductions.  When a small, strange girl moves to the village, Mycroft gets a protégé, but Sherlock finds something much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Pink

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into the lovely land of Sherlock and Molly.
> 
> I read a couple one-shot swaplock fics somewhere, and just wanted more, more, more.
> 
> So I wrote more. 
> 
> Like... the whole series more.
> 
> We're doing a chapter per episode, maybe with one extra on the end. 
> 
> As of now, I'm without a beta so I apologize for any and all errors. Also, on a related note, I am in the market for someone to beta this sucker. Let me know if you are interested.
> 
> Okay. Here we go. New story time. This is always so exciting.

As is rather typical, it is raining in London.  Equally as typical, Sherlock Holmes finds himself without an umbrella.

Although he is needed at Bart's, instead of getting a cab he has spent the last twenty minutes tearing apart his flat in a futile search for the umbrella he purchased after a similar morning just last month.

He thinks perhaps his brother stole it, but Mycroft is rather particular about his umbrellas where Sherlock is not.

After another five minutes his cab arrives and Sherlock gives up.  He pops the collar of his coat and huddles down in his scarf, sprinting from his front stoop to the waiting taxi.

Just before he reaches the vehicle, a very small person under an umbrella beats him to it.  Her dress is extremely unpractical for the weather; skirt beyond short, excessively tight, and exposing fishnet covered legs.  Sherlock scowls at her safe and dry in the back of his taxi.  For a moment she appears to be simply a rather aggressive sex worker, but under her bleached blond hair there is something about the tilt of her head that is familiar.

"Molly!" he shouts, sliding in after her. He pulls the door shut behind him and frowns at her makeup job. Garish red changes the shape of her lovely, serious mouth, and he finds the blue contacts equally unpleasant. “Are you wearing a prosthetic nose? You are wearing a prosthetic nose.”

"St. Bart's Hospital," she tells the cabbie, pulling off the wig.

"Is that my umbrella?" he demands, absolutely seething.  His hair is nearly soaked.

"I was returning it!  Just got a bit caught up.  That's all."

"Caught up masquerading as a prostitute?"

"Yes.  Hold this."  She thrusts a ridding crop at him and suddenly the whole thing is so ridiculous that he struggles not to grin. His hair is soaking, so she does not deserve his grin.

Removing a hair net and pins, she lets her own hair fall down in messy waves around her shoulders.  She shakes out her long locks, the natural light brown much more pleasing than the bleached monstrosity, and Sherlock tries not to stare.

"It was bloody hot in that wig," she mutters, frowning down at the mass of blonde in her lap.  "No one ever recognizes me.  Only you.  I bumped into Morstan, totally on purpose, of course, and she wasn't the least bit suspicious.  How'd you know?"

"Tilt of your head."

"Tilt of the head," she mutters, running her fingers through her hair before pulling it up into a ponytail.  "Tilt of the head.  I always, always forget something."

"And that's my umbrella."

"I was returning it to you!"

"What's all this for, then?" he asks, reclaiming his umbrella.  "A case?"

"Yes, of course.  Don't ask silly questions.  You originally suspected Mycroft when you couldn't find your umbrella, didn't you?  Before you recognized your own stupidity because Mycroft is very particular about his umbrellas."

"Molly," he says, letting his head drop back.  He closes his eyes.  "It is far too early in the day for this and I am far too wet."

"Would you prefer I just sit here silently for the remainder of the trip."

"Yes.  Wonderful."

* * *

Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.

It is easy to forget when she’s standing about, being absurdly short, drowning in a hideous jumper, turning that intense, dark eyed stare on him as she catalogs every detail, but now he watches her, beating the corpse of his former colleague black and blue with a riding crop, and he is once more reminded.

Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.

Her face is scrubbed free of makeup and she changed into the normal clothes she apparently had stashed in his office. Now she is in his mortuary, fierce and perfect. Watching her is all he can do.

Her innocent face and short stature is something she does not hesitate to use to her advantage, and the effect of her cultivated aura of weakness is devastating to the many fools who don’t know better.

He knows better, yet Molly often devastates him. Thoroughly.

Hiding beneath her horrid wardrobe are hard muscles and strong limbs.

Sherlock tries very hard not to think on that as Molly finishes her assault and strides over to him, pushing the hair that escaped her ponytail back behind her ears.

“So, bad day, was it?” he asks, smirking slightly and wondering what she’s been doing since they shared a cab in this morning.

“I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes,” she informs him, in no mood to chat. As she talks she brandishes the riding crop it gets alarming close to his face. “A man’s alibi depends on it.”

“Right,” he replies, taking the weapon from her hands and hanging it on a nearby hook. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Any thing else?”

His annoyance and sarcasm also go unnoticed, or more likely, are deliberately ignored.

“Coffee. Black, two—“

“Yes, yes, two sugars. I am well aware of how you take your coffee, Molly,” he replies.

“Then don’t cock it up too badly,” she says, turning on her heel. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Sherlock sighs, watching her go. It seems as though he is eternally watching her go.

* * *

He considers the laboratory door and then the mugs of coffee occupying each of his hands. He peaks through the narrow window on the off chance that Molly is lingering nearby to assist him.

She is hunched over her favorite microscope, staring at a blond stranger with a cane. He extends his mobile phone and Molly arises, nodding in thanks as she begins to text. Across the room Mike Stamford watches with a slight smile.

The sight of the stranger has him sloshing hot coffee all over his hands. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and it burns worse than the coffee.

Hunching nearly in half, he pushes down on the handle with his elbow and enters the lab.

“Which was it,” Molly asks the stranger without glancing up from the borrowed phone. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Wait, sorry how did you—“

“Ah, Sherlock.” She beams at him, that phony smile that he loathes. The one where her eyes squint to a ludicrous degree. The one that never fails to get her exactly what she wants. “Coffee. Thank you.”

The “thank you” is a surprise and she accepts the beverage.

“You’re welcome, Molly,” he replies.

“Yes, yes.” She waves him away, leaning to the side to look around him at the stranger. “How do you feel about cats?”

Jealous beyond reason and extremely uncomfortable, Sherlock retreats to the back of the lab, flipping through a file that he does not need just so he has an excuse to linger through the rest of the exchange.

“I’m sorry?” asks the stranger, blinking rapidly.

When he is not struggling against an irrationally jealous rage, Sherlock quite enjoys watching people meet Molly for the first time. The result of her _observing_ is typically blinking, gaping, and generally dumbfounded expressions. Occasionally there is violence.

“I have a cat,” Molly says, handing back the phone. “Toby. I pet him while I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?”

The situation is much more dire then Sherlock previously thought. It has been a long time since Molly showed any interest in, well, anyone really, and now she wants a flatmate.

It is unfathomable.

By the time Molly is pulling on her ancient and excessively bright, red leather bomber jacket that once belonged to her mother, Sherlock learns that the stranger is a former army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an alcoholic brother of whom the stranger does not approve.

Unlike most privy to Molly’s _deducting_ for the first time, this man seems genuinely impressed.

He is blinking, gaping, and generally dumbfounded, but also impressed.

And he has an invitation to Baker Street, although Sherlock never catches his name.

* * *

There is a dead bird on the gravel road that leads from his house to the crumbling building that was once a stable, back before purebred horses were replaced with sports cars.

The dead bird is fascinating. Beneath its dull black feathers are bones and muscles that once allowed it to fly but now it’s dead on the side of the road. Sherlock would very much like to know how it all works.

Sherlock is not the only one who wants a closer look at the dead bird.  There is also a girl.

Despite his deep interest in the dead bird, there have been many dead birds this summer but never a girl, staring down at the deceased creature with her skinny arms crossed over her chest.

She is new, not a child of the housekeeper or the gardener. The community surrounding the Holmes estate is not large and Sherlock knows all their faces.

The girl is new.

He stands opposite her, the dead bird between them at their feet.

“Hello,” he says, trying to determine her age. She could very well be ten, like him. Perhaps she is simply small for her age, or maybe she is younger, but when she glances up at him, eyes dark and brown, he decides that she is actually much older than she looks.

She studies his face for a few seconds, eyes darting from feature to feature. The intensity of her stare is captivating and he frowns when she drops her gaze once more. Not once did she make eye contact and it makes him nervous.

“This is the fourth dead bird, far more than is average for this part of the country in the month of June. And that is only what I’ve happened upon in my five days since arriving.   This _is_ a mystery,” she says, tapping her chin as she continues to stare down at the bird.

As far as Sherlock is concerned, the girl on this road is the only mystery.

“I must save the birds. It is imperative I save the birds.”

She uses big words like Mycroft, but while his brother always sounds bored the girl is excited, practically vibrating with it.

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” he says, extending a hand just as Mycroft taught him. “I live—“

“Yes, yes,” she interrupts, waving a hand around her head and staring at the dead bird. “You live up in the big house. I know. I could tell by your shoes.”

Sherlock shuffles his feet. “My shoes?”

“Stuffy. Expensive. New. Limited wear on the soles as you spend the majority of the year off at boarding school where they do not have dirt roads.”

And now she sounds even more like Mycroft.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes. And you are?”

The little girl taps her chin twice and turns on her heel, veering of the road and making towards the woods, leaving Sherlock to gape at her retreating form.

“The name’s Molly Hooper,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Hooper?” Sherlock yells back. “As in Dr. Hooper in the village?”

“Yes. Are you coming? We really must save the birds. If we do not care about the birds, than no one will.”

He nearly trips over his gangly, too long legs in his haste to follow.

* * *

“Your bother is an idiot,” says Molly, making Sherlock jump. She is seated at her favorite microscope, hunched over and focused.

“What did he do?” Sherlock asks. His shift ended half an hour ago and he planned to clean up before spending the evening at home with his violin. But Molly is here for the first time in a week, so he gives up on classical music and take away in favor of chemistry and Molly ordering him about. “It must be bad. You only call him ‘ _your_ _brother’_ when it's bad.”

“He kidnapped John.”

It is very hard work to keep his jealousy from lighting up like a green sign stamped on his forehead, visible only to Molly. He leans against the counter with long practiced nonchalance and watches her. “John?” he asks.

“New flatmate,” she says, lifting her head to roll her eyes at him. “You met him weeks ago. Do keep up.”

The man’s name is new information, and Sherlock was hoping that the flatmate business was merely a Molly-whim, forgotten when something more exciting came along.

Apparently not.

“Mycroft kidnapped your new flatmate,” Sherlock repeats. “Well, that seems right on. Did he return this John unharmed?”

“Yes, yes,” she says, stretching her arms above her head, showing off her standard hideous jumper. “He offered John money to spy on me and the loyal idiot said no. We could have split it. Split the fee.”

Sherlock snorts. “So they’re both idiots, then.”

“Yes.”

“He’s just worried about you, Mo. Can you really blame him?”

“Its been a years since an incident!” she snaps.

“Incident? Really, you are going with incident? That’s how you are choosing to describe your addiction? And overdosing?”

“You Holmes boys.” She waves a dismissive hand around her head. “I swear.”

“Molly—“ His attempt to be appeasing is immediately interrupted.

“I can blame him for being worried and I blame you,” she says, arms crossed over hideous jumper number thirty-seven. “I am a grown woman with volumes more mental capacity than the bloody _British Government himself._ It is really overbearing. Even for Mycroft.”

Sherlock grins because yes, Molly is certainly a genius but she always misses something.

“What?” she demands, eyes searching his face. “What did I miss? You absolutely must tell me, Sherlock.”

“It was a test,” Sherlock replies. “Mycroft was testing your new friend.”

“Flatmate,” Molly corrects. “Or maybe colleague is more appropriate as he is rather useful on a case, but not friend. Friend would imply sentiment.”

Sherlock snorts. “God forbid you feel something for someone.”

“A test,” Molly says, turning back to whatever bizarre thing is undoubtedly beneath her microscope. “A test. A test in which accepting the money would have been a sign of a character flaw.”

“Obviously,” drawls Sherlock.

“And John passed.” Although it is no question, Molly looks up at Sherlock, awaiting his confirmation. It is a habit leftover from their youth, when Molly was outcast and insecure, before she became a disciple of Mycroft and lost her father.

Before she changed form the girl who cared too much to the consulting detective who scoffs at sentiment _._

The expression is no less endearing now than it was before.

“It would seem so,” he replies, smiling at her fondly.

“Good,” Molly says, back to her work. “Good.”

All feelings of warmth for the small, infuriating woman before him abruptly depart when he realizes that Molly is genuinely relieved that her _John_ passed Mycroft’s - first of many, Sherlock is sure) - test.

“Is he… are you… is he your, ah.” He clears his throat. This is uncharted territory as Molly’s typical indifference to people has kept him from thinking on the very real possibility that she might someday elect to be with someone else.

She said colleague, she said roommate, but Sherlock must know.

“You are pretty when you blush,” she says without looking up from her microscope. “Now how about those thumbs?”

“Are you together, Molly?”

This question does earn him eye contact, but under her narrow-eyed stare he feels like a lovesick fool.

“Together?” she asks, tapping her chin as she studies him. “At the moment, no. John is not here therefore we are not together. You and I are together. But I imagine John and I will be together at home later, with him trying to force an artery-clogging horror down my throat, no doubt. He’s even worse than you with this obsession to feed me.”

Sherlock nods and turns away, on a mission for thumbs, but something makes him brave. After all these years of allowing her to smile her way into whatever she wants, surely he deserves a real answer at the very least and he turns to face her once more, standing tall in the doorway, not even shuffling his feet. “You know very well what I meant, Molly.”

She raises a single eyebrow, appraising him quickly in that way of hers that strips him so utterly.

“Not my area,” she declares after a few moments of a silent standoff. Her microscope is suddenly more fascinating than Sherlock and she is back to it.

Again, it is not a real answer but more than he’s come to expect from her. “It used to be,” he mutters.

She does not hear him or at the very least she pretends not to.

“And,” she says, stopping him just before he turns back to the mission for thumbs, “John would shoot you for that ill-advised assumption, Sherlock. Do check your facts before making such asinine inquires. Angelo made a similar assumption and if John’s deep discomfort was any indication I would say his preference is decidedly not towards the female. Does that answer satisfy?”

“You took John to Angelo’s?” Sherlock asks, frowning.

“It was a case. Thumbs, Sherlock. Thumbs.”

He wonders about Molly’s preference for the remainder of the night as he sits by her, assisting with her experiments late into the night. If their long history is any indication, he would say her preference is decidedly not towards Sherlock Holmes.

Not anymore.

* * *

“We saved the birds, Dad.”

Dr. Hooper set Sherlock’s broken arm when he was six and saw him through a nasty bout of flu last year. He is a quiet man and seems to like Mycroft more than anyone should like Mycroft.

Now, he frowns down at Molly as he opens the door to them after supper.

“Oh,” says Dr. Hooper, looking up from Molly to Mycroft who stands behind them, a hand resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Where did you find her?”

“I did not find her,” Mycroft replies. “It is my understanding that Miss Hooper spent the afternoon with my brother, saving the birds. I was under the impression she rang you about staying for supper. We fed her already, I’m afraid.”

“I thought I told you to stay in the backyard, Molly,” says Dr. Hooper.

At his side, Molly cowers, staring intently at her shoes.

“Perhaps in the future you should keep a more studious watch over your daughter, George,” says Mycroft. “I was unaware you even had children.”

Dr. Hooper rubs his temples.

“Dad,” Molly says, bouncing in place. “Dad, we saved the birds. It was an illegal fertilizer. Poisoned them. Threw off the integrity of the whole ecosystem. But the birds will live, now. They’ll live!”

Sherlock smiles at Molly, but Dr. Hooper doesn’t. He looks at his daughter as if she is an alien invader. Sherlock doesn’t understand how it’s possible not to smile at Molly when she is so excited. Even Mycroft smiles back, did so all through supper, and usually all he does is sigh and sigh.

Dr. Hooper glances down at Molly, nods once, and looks back to Mycroft. “Fancy a drink?”

“Please, can we stay?” asks Sherlock. “Can we, Mycroft?”

“Oh, all right. One drink.”

* * *

Molly Hooper shows Sherlock her room. The walls are covered with newspaper clippings and posters, maps and pictures of cats. She has an impressive number of books for someone who is ten – he asked her age three times before she seemed to notice – and she selects one, pushing it into his chest without looking at him.

“Your knowledge of birds is embarrassing. Might want to brush up.”

* * *

There is a knock on his bedroom door and Sherlock marks his place in the book.

“Come in,” he says.

Mummy enters and he sits up a bit straighter as she perches on the edge of his bed, hair slightly disheveled and grey suit wrinkled from a long day spent traveling.

“You’re back!” says Sherlock, delighted.

“Yes, darling,” she says, kissing his cheek. “I caught an earlier flight.”

“How long until you have to be back with the symphony, Mummy?”

“I have a whole five days and I plan to spend it right here with you.”

Compared to her typical day visits, five whole days seems an eternity. Grinning, he throws his arms around her neck.

“Will you read to me?” he asks, scooting over in bed to make room for her. She kicks off her heels and stretches out beside him, extending her legs over the covers.

“ _The Anatomy of Land Birds_?” she reads, raising an eyebrow in question. “This is a far cry from your usual pirate stories, isn’t it?”

Color floods his cheeks and he stares at his lap. “It’s interesting.”

“Does this have anything with your little adventure with Molly Hooper?” she asks.

“How did you know? Mycroft. Mycroft told you. Mycroft tells you _everything._ ”

She laughs a bit and brushes his dark curls off his forehead. “That is his job as the oldest. You know he is in charge when I am away.”

And she’s always away. Which means Mycroft is always in charge.

“It was a mystery, Mummy,” Sherlock says, the excitement of the day returning. “Molly and I solved the mystery. Well, Molly truly solved it but I was her assistant.”

“That’s lovely, darling. I’m glad you’ve made a new friend. Molly Hooper could use a friend like you.”

“Why, Mummy?”

“Well, she is new to the village,” Mummy replies.

“I know. She's Dr. Hooper’s daughter. But she just met him for the first time last week! Isn’t that strange?”

“Quite strange.”

“Molly says her Mummy drank herself to death and that is why she is living here with Dr. Hooper who she met for the first time last week. What did she drink that made her die? You don’t drink it, do you?” he asks, suddenly very concerned.

“Not like that, Sherlock. She certainly gave you a great deal of detail, didn’t she?”

“I think Molly likes detail a great deal, Mummy. Also she likes mysteries and saving things from dying.”

“So it would seem.”

“Tomorrow I will show her the pond.” His eyelids get heavy as he snuggles into Mummy’s side. “Can you read now?”

“Of course, darling.”

He manages to stay awake for a full four minutes before he drifts off.

 


	2. The Blind Banker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock enables Molly's inability to feed herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People are reading this! Excellent! Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, bookmarking, whatever. You are the best ones.
> 
> Big thanks to my lovely betas.  
> 1st beta: Monica, aka mattressesflollop  
> Final beta: The ever wonderful Donna who has helped me out on several projects before.

“What are you thinking?” she asks. “Pork or pasta?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks down at Molly who’s just appeared at his side.   “It’s you.”

“Is that any way to greet your oldest of friends?”

“Molly! By Jove! It’s smashing to see you. Truly, _smashing_!”

His false enthusiasm and saccharine tone do not impress Molly and, rolling her eyes, she turns back to the buffet before them.

“I’d stick with the pasta. Don’t want to be doing roast pork, not if you’re slicing up cadavers,” she says, far too cheery for this late in the evening.

The putrid smell of the cafeteria – and his gourmet supper, packed and perfect and left home in his refrigerator – have him in a mood. Molly’s presence brightens it slightly, although he is well aware that she is only here because she needs some exhausting favor or another.

“What are you having?” he asks, considering the options before him.

Both equally disgusting.

“Sherlock, you know I don’t eat when I’m working.” She smiles and pats her stomach. “Digesting slows me down.”

“Right.” He does know better, but part of him hoped she was here for the company only. His company. “Working. Why else would you be here?”

“Why indeed. I need to examine some bodies.”

She gives him names and he consults his list.

“Could you wheel them out again for me?”

“Molly,” he says, groaning slightly. “The paperwork’s already gone through.”

“You cut your hair,” she says, dazzling him with her smile.

“Don’t,” he replies, once more looking at the truly sordid dinner options before him. “Don’t you do that."

“It suits you,” Molly says, pressing against his side. She pushes her fingers through his hair.

“Molly!” he scolds. “There is no need for that. All you must do is ask nicely.”

“I did ask nicely,” she snaps, all charm rapidly deteriorating as she stomps her foot and pouts.

“Say ‘ _please_.’”

She scowls at him for another few seconds. “Please, Sherlock. Please let me have a look at the bodies.”

“Of course, Molly. Anything for my oldest of friends.”

“Tosser,” she whispers as he leads the way to the mortuary and Sherlock grins down at the paperwork clutched in his hands.

“You better not be wasting my time, Miss Hooper.” A law enforcement official that is decidedly not Detective Inspector Morstan, Molly’s typical contact from the yard, falls into step with them as they emerge from the lift.

At his side, Molly is rolling her eyes again. She tugs the sleeves of her jumper over her hands.

“Give my pathologist a bit of time, DI Dimmock,” she says. “Just a few moments more.”

Sherlock holds the door to the mortuary open for Molly and the new DI, gesturing for them to enter.

“We’re just interested in the feet,” she declares.

It is far from the strangest thing he’s ever heard Molly say.

* * *

“Bloody posh uniform.” Molly tugs on the collar of her crisp white shirt, and slouches in her seat, eyes darting around in her head as she watches the countryside whiz by.

“Such language only contributed to you getting thrown out of your last school, Molly,” Mycroft says from behind his newspaper.

Next to Molly, Sherlock silently imitates his brother. When she grins at him it feels like a great success and his heart nearly flies out of his chest.

“I did not get kicked out,” Molly says, her gaze once more on the window. “It was merely suggested that my education might benefit from a change in scenery.”

He is not entirely sure what prompted Molly’s departure from the local school and she certainly isn’t giving details, but apparently she was trying to help someone and the whole thing went horribly awry.

Typical story, really.

Sherlock is very glad she’s here. Since finding Molly Hooper on the side of the road, studying a dead bird five summers ago, leaving for school has always been particularly painful for it means leaving her behind.

But this year everything is different, as evidenced by Molly sitting at his side in a uniform identical to his.

“Regardless of circumstance, it is my belief that you will be far happier away at school with Sherlock,” says Mycroft.

Sherlock wonders if George had any input in Molly’s schooling. Doctor Hooper is probably glad to be rid of her, the giant wanker.

“School is boring. Classmates are boring. It’s all so boring, boring, boring.” She slumps even father in her seat and nearly tumbles to floor of the compartment.

“All your courses will be very advanced. Perhaps you will find some subject that will keep your interest enough to inspire grades good enough to keep you from failing out,” Mycroft says, still behind his newspaper.

Molly glances up at Sherlock, anticipating another Mycroft impression, but she gets none. Sherlock agrees with his brother in this and hopes that Molly takes this opportunity as the fresh start it is. Despite being the smartest person Sherlock can ever even imagine knowing, she is crap in matters of school and her marks are notoriously poor.

“You too, Sherlock?” she whispers.

“It’ll be good, Mo. Promise.”

She very nearly smiles at him.

* * *

"Sherlock!"  Molly tugs on his elbow, stopping his forward movement towards the library, the first location on Molly's tour of campus. He glances up from Molly at his side – in recent years not looking at her has grown difficult – to see a pair of his friends quickly approaching them.

He understands her panic, the strength of her grip on his arm.  Between getting off the train, completing paperwork in the office, getting settled in her room, and now, Molly's barely spoken a word.  She's looked only at her feet and Sherlock is nervous too.  This is difficult for her, he knows, and although he's not actually seen Molly interact with her peers in a school setting before, the few run ins they’ve had with local kids over summer were painful.  With adults, with Sherlock, Molly is enthusiastic and bright but it's all been teased right out of her by damnably cruel peers. 

"You know them?" she says to her feet.

"Yeah.  They're my mates.  But we can make a run for it."

"No, no, no.  You... you, pro-probably missed them this summer.  I'll just sta- sta- stand here silently."

Stuttering. Not a good sign.

"You don't want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, eyeing his friends as they rush across the quad.

"Would it be strange?  To not introduce me?" she asks, turning her back on the boys, pressing herself into his side and standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

"A bit.  It would be a bit strange."

"Hey!  Sherlock!  How's it going, mate?"

"Introduce me!" Molly hisses before stepping away to meet his friends head on.  She lingers close, slightly behind Sherlock, halfway hiding.

"Hello," says Sherlock, grinning as he shakes Victor's hand.  This one, he genuinely did miss.

The same cannot be said for the other.

Sherlock not overly social himself, although compared to Molly he is the life of the party.  But truly he has few friends of higher quality rather than many loose acquaintances. 

The other boy, bulky, mean Carl Powers, is not so much a friend but more of an annoyance Sherlock is forced to tolerate. 

"Victor.  Carl.  I trust you had a good summer?" he asks.

"Oh, you know.  Got a bit boring, at the end," says Victor, shrugging.  

Carl is staring intently at Molly who is staring intently at her feet.

"Who's this then?" Carl crosses her massive arms over his chest and leers at Molly. 

 _Leers_.

"This is my best friend, Molly," he says, placing his hand on her shoulder.  He focuses on making this a bit easier for Molly rather than his sudden and powerful hate for Carl.  "Molly, this is Victor and Carl."

"Hello, hello," Molly chirps.  She darts forward, vigorously shaking first Victor's hand and then Carl's as she stares at their feet now, before quickly retreating to Sherlock's side.  She vibrates in place and Sherlock does not approve of the look on Carl's face.  While a moment ago he was leering, now he appears repulsed.  Although Molly's behavior is a bit strange – the handshake went on too long and spanned to great a distance, too high then too low – there is no need to look so scandalized.

Greetings and handshakes and other social niceties do not come naturally to everyone. Sherlock learned this from Molly ages ago.

"Molly Hooper?" asks Victor, smirking at Sherlock. For years, Victor has teased Sherlock for being hung up on a girl back home and Sherlock blushes.  "I was beginning to think Holmes here invented you as an excuse to explain why he never goes on dates."

"No," Sherlock attempts to explain.  "We are merely friends."

"No, Sherlock."  For the first time in hours she looks at his face to pout at him for a moment.  "Not just mates.  Best friends.  And I've heard of you as well, Victor.  Sherlock likes you because you are the only one around here who can keep up with him academically."

"Oi!" shouts Carl.

Molly flinches, but otherwise ignores the interruption as she once more stares at her shoes.  "Although the humanities are more your area while Sherlock is blindly devoted to the sciences.  You really should start writing for the school newspaper.  As daunting as it must be you have nothing to be embarrassed of and I see you've wanted to try for sometime."

"Wow," Victor says, blinking.  "You told her all that did you, Holmes?"

"No, no, no," says Molly, waving a hand around her head.  "I can see it for myself.  Oh, and I'm dreadfully sorry about your dog.  Had him your whole life, did you?  It seems as though he waited for you to come home for summer before succumbing to old age.  That's something."

Victor's eyes are wide and Sherlock tries not to laugh.  "It was a cat, actually." 

"A cat!" shouts Molly, stomping her foot.  "Of course it was a cat.  I always miss something, don’t I, Sherlock?"

"So it would seem, Molly."

"You, now you, Sherlock has not spoken of," Molly continues, obviously talking about Carl now.  Although perhaps this is only clear to Sherlock as the other boys look wholly bemused.  "I can help you, you know. Just because you don't have a head for maths does not mean that you'll need to be held back another year.  I'm excellent in maths, although Sherlock would probably make a better tutor as he actually cares about completely arbitrary grading systems.  He could help you.  Wouldn't you help him, Sherlock?"

Carl is now glaring daggers at Molly, hands clenched at his sides.  "What the fuck you say?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says to the ground.  Sherlock's hand is back on her shoulder as he stares down Carl.  "I've made you mad.  That was not my intent.  I was merely saying that all is not lost in the maths department.  And better marks will surely make things less tense at home.  G- g- give your mother one less thing to criticize.  And it's eczema, by the way.  You have eczema and I would suggest going out for swim as you certainly have the shoulders for it if not the waist."

"Who told you about my Mum!" shrieks Carl.

"No- no- no- no one!" Molly squeaks.

"Hey, Carl, Why don't you calm down?  Although it might not seem like it, she was trying to help," says Sherlock, putting himself between Molly and the enraged boy before them.  Although physically she could probably take out Carl, clumsy as he is, as she's been training with Mycroft for years. But he knows this situation is horrible for Molly and he feels the need to protect her in anyway he can.

"Who the fuck told!" yells Carl, taking a step forward.  Victor has his arm now, pulling him back.

"I observe!" says Molly.  She turns to hide her face against Sherlock's arm.  "I observe and deduce.  Was it not good, Sherlock?  I was just trying to help."

"I know, Mo.  It was a bit personal, that's all."

"Oh."

"Carl, there's no need to get violent, yeah?" says Victor.

Carl yanks his arm from Victor's grip.  "Fuck you, bitch."  Molly flinches again.  If it wasn't for her quaking presence at his side, he'd tackle Carl, right here.  "Keep your girlfriend under control, Holmes!"

And then he is stalking off across the campus.

"Come on, Molly," Sherlock murmurs.  "He's gone now.  It's over."

Sighing heavily, Molly steps away from Sherlock and scrubs her hands over her face.  "Stupid, stupid," she mutters.  "That was horrible of me, wasn't it Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't say horrible. Certainly not good.  Again, too personal but your intentions were pure and nothing you said warranted such a reaction," Sherlock says, getting angry all over again as he thinks on it.

"I embarrassed you," she says, glancing up at him.  "Didn't I?  I talked about this with Mycroft. Tying to _not_ embarrassing you I mean.  But I just failed so spectacularly!  I didn't want to embarrass you!"

"Really?  You think I care about Carl Powers or his undoubtedly stupid opinions?  I can't stand the bloke.  Frankly, he deserves a good beating for what he said to you.  Mycroft thought you'd embarrass me?" Sherlock asks, frowning.

"No, no, no.  I thought that.  He scoffed and said that you adore me."

"Right he is."

Molly flashes him a beautiful, brilliant, blinding smile before she returns to her hand wringing and fretting.

"I am sorry.  I get nervous and it all just comes tumbling out and I want your friends to like me so I thought to make myself useful," she murmurs, tears in her eyes now.

"You can't save everyone, Molly.  Especially if they don't want help."

These familiar words make Molly smile again, tears evaporating into nothing.

"Yes, yes.” She nods.  “So you say."

Sherlock smiles down at Molly, once more so pleased to have her here.  His reasons are mostly selfish as he always wants to be near Molly, but he feels confident that being at this school will benefit her as well.  Before, Molly would be forced to deal with the aftermath of such situations on her own.  Here, she has Sherlock to talk her through it. 

He smiles at her again, wondering when she got so beautiful.  Sometimes the softness of her face makes his chest tight.

"So," says Victor.  He clears his throat.

Sherlock startles, having totally forgot about his friend's presence.  "Ah, Victor.  Thank you for your assistance there.  Things got a bit tense, didn't they?"

Victor laughs, as easy as he always is.  "You could say so, mate."

"Yes, thank you, Victor," Molly says.  Again, thanking is not a natural inclination for Molly but she does all right following Sherlock's lead.

"So, have you seen the library yet, Molly?  It seems like your kind of place.  Plus, maybe you can take a look at something I’ve written?  Maybe give me some edits before I submitted it to the paper?"

"Really?" Molly lights up and Sherlock's chest gets even tighter.  "You'd like my help?"

"Sure.  Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine so I figure I can trust you with my writing."

Sherlock is no longer nervous.  Molly will be all right here.  In fact he is sure she will flourish.  

* * *

He yawns his way through the last hour of his shift and dozes off in the taxi on the way to his flat. After a scalding shower, he considers the refrigerator but gets distracted by his violin. He plays for several hours, knowing he should retire for the night but still unable to put down his instrument.

The music relaxes him more than sleep does, feeds something in him that food does not satisfy.

When he finally does finish, he turns to see Molly sprawled out on his sofa. Eyes closed, breathing deep, she did not even manage to remove her leather jacket before succumbing to sleep.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock watches her for a moment. He smiles, taking in her delicate features made soft by sleep. Her cheek rests on her hands and one leg has fallen off the sofa, her boot resting on floor.

Sherlock removes her shoes and places her leg gently back on the cushion. He covers her with a throw and tries not to let the fluttering in his chest get too out of control when she sighs as he touches her cheek.

* * *

It is well after ten in the morning when Sherlock wakes. At some point in the night, Molly migrated from the couch to his bed. She's facing him and awake, probably has been for quite some time.

In moments such as this, he does not regret that she somehow managed to hold onto her key, despite everything that’s happened since she moved from the flat.

Since Sherlock kicked her out, more accurately.

If he ever manages to find – and even more daunting, maintain – a girlfriend he’ll really have to get that key. Although a few locks are far from enough to keep Molly out.

“I’m hungry,” she declares.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Vigorous case, was it?”

“John was kidnapped.”

“By Mycroft? Again?”

“No, this time the threat was far more serious.” She throws back the covers and sits up, stretching her arms above her head, revealing hideous jumper number eleven. “Deadly, even. But never fear. I saved the day and solved the case, as per the usual. Sherlock, I’m hungry.”

He blinks at her and then pulls the blanket over his head.

“Sherlock!”

“Doesn’t your Doctor John typically feed you?” His deep voice is muffled by layers of bedding.

“He is preoccupied after last night with another doctor called Cyril. Cyril was also kidnapped. Not the best way to end a first date, so I imagine John spent the night attempting to redeem him self with intercourse. When we returned home he absolutely refused to even make me a sandwich.”

“Huh,” mutters Sherlock into his pillow, closing his eyes once more.

“Sherlock, breakfast.” She pokes him in the side.

“Ten minutes more.” He grunts, Molly falls silent, and he drifts off to sleep again.

“Breakfast, Sherlock,” Molly says, approximately three seconds later.

“I said ten minutes!”

“It’s been ten minutes.”

“Has not.”

“Down to the second. We are well over at this point. After all this unnecessary speaking.”

Sherlock emerges from the blankets to squint at Molly. “Say ‘ _please’_.”

“I haven’t eaten in four days. There is nothing in the fridge at Baker Street but dactyls and John’s leftover take-away that I’ve been banned from consuming. Please cook me breakfast, you giant tosser.”

Sherlock chuckles and rolls out of bed. Molly follows close behind him as he moves to the kitchen and removes a carton of eggs from the fridge.                

“Do you remember Bastian? From uni?” she asks, busying herself with the kettle.

Sherlock pulls a face. “Sebastian Holland? I hated him.”

“Did you?” She sounds absolutely giddy at the prospect, beaming at him and bouncing over to the sink to fill it. “Yes, of course you did. He asked me out. Of course you hated him.”

“That’s not why!” Sherlock insists, turning away from her to hide the color in his cheeks. “Well, not wholly. He was a vulgar, obnoxious plebian, Mo. How could I possibly not hate him?”

“Yes, well. Works in banking now. That’s where I found the case.”

“Holland had a case for you that prevented you from eating for four days?” Sherlock asks, busying himself with preparing their breakfast.

“Yes, he contacted me to find the hole in his firm’s security. They had a breech perpetuated by a Chinese smuggling ring,” she says, as if it should have been obvious.

As bizarre as it sounds, the whole thing is pretty standard where Molly’s concerned.

She recounts the details of her latest case and her own brilliance. Sherlock listens happily, soothed by the enthusiasm in her voice and her presence in his kitchen, demanding as it maybe.

* * *

“I don’t know how you stand to spend ten minutes around her, Sherlock,” says Carl as they make their way from the science building to the canteen. “She has no since of privacy. How does she know all that? It’s creepy.”

His hand tightens on the strap of his bag. “She observes. That’s all. You’ll get used to it.” In the months since returning to school, Sherlock has not forgotten or forgiven Carl’s behavior towards Molly that first day. The idiot seems completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock is on the precipice of extreme violence.

“No way,” says Carl. “Under no circumstances will I be getting used to it.”

“I like her,” says Victor. “Those dark eyes really do it for me.”

This statement, though seemingly more complimentary, is equally enraging to Sherlock, although simply the latest in Victor’s never ending campaign to get Sherlock to admit his feelings for Molly and therefore forgivable.

“The small, dowdy ones are wild in bed,” says Carl. “Isn’t that right, Sherlock?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he replies through a clenched jaw. “Molly is simply my close friend and I find this talk highly offensive. I barely restrained myself last time you spoke to her and have no plans to do so again if you continue.”

Despite his seriousness, Carl laughs.

“Come off it, Sherlock,” he says.   “No way does a bloke put up with a girl like that unless they’re getting a shag out of it.”

Sherlock turns red, a combination of embarrassment and rage. “Stop!” He demands, rounding on Carl. “You will not talk about Molly that way. I will not hear it!”

“You like her,” Carl says, poking Sherlock in the chest. “You _love_ her. You’re in love with a psychopath! What the fuck does that make you?”

“I'm a high functioning sociopath, actually.” At the sound of Molly’s voice all three boys whirl around. She stands in her rumpled uniform, arms crossed over her chest, absolutely furious.

Sherlock gapes at her. Something in his Molly seems to have changed since he saw her – last night, dinner – and for the first time she is filled with a righteous anger, a resolve, a demand for respect.

For a moment he forgets his embarrassment and discomfort for he is simply proud.

“Sociopath?” stutters Carl, looking properly frightened.

“Do your research,” she snaps before turning on her heel and stomping in the opposite direction.

Carl laughs, the sound uncomfortable this time, and rather than punch his former friend’s face, Sherlock follows a fleeing Molly, finally catching up with her in a clump of trees just behind the chapel.

“Molly, I’m sorry,” he says, although he’s not totally sure what exactly he is apologizing for.

Definitely for his terrible choice in companions. Maybe because he failed to protect her from such mockery.

She drops her book bag in the dirt and proceeds to climb the nearest tree. Her movements easy and lithe, hidden muscles making the climb seem effortless. She stretches out on a limb some ten feet above Sherlock’s head.

“Molly?”

She taps her chin and does not respond. Sherlock tries several more times to get a few words from her, but she remains silent, lost in her Mind Palace. Seeing no other option, Sherlock places his bag by Molly’s and starts to climb.

He is nowhere near as graceful, but he manages to settle on a branch just below her.

“You are not a high functioning sociopath,” he says.

“Course I am.”

“You are not.”

“Yes, I am, Sherlock. It must be obvious even to you that I am not like these _normal_ people.” She speaks with utter contempt. It is am improvement on her usual sadness and hurt.

“No. You are autistic.”

Her head snaps around and she glares at him. Despite her size and her delicate features, the effect is terrifying.

“How could you possibly know that?” she whispers.

“I overheard your father discussing it with Mycroft years ago,” he says, shrugging.

“Years. You’ve known for years?”

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing?”

“What should I have said?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright then.”

For a moment, Molly is silent. Sherlock is a bit baffled as Molly has a tendency to know everything. How she could have missed his knowledge in this area is a mystery.

“It’s only the smallest possible bit of autism,” she whispers.

“It doesn’t matter, Molly,” he replies. “You are brilliant and that’s that.”

Molly is tapping her chin again, but she relaxes back against the tree.

“Sociopath?” He squints up at her. “Truly? You truly thought you could pull of sociopath?”

“Maybe?” she ventures.

“No. Absolutely not. If anything you are the direct opposite of a sociopath. You care. You care with everything you are, even for useless wastes of space like Carl Powers.”

“People matter, Sherlock.”

“Some people,” he mutters.

Sherlock adjusts, trying to find a more comfortable position leaning back against the truck of the tree. Molly stares straight ahead.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Did you very nearly assault Carl out of some misbegotten sense of duty? To defend my honor, so to speak?” she asks, talking slowly as if she hasn’t quite figured it out as of yet.

Sherlock chuckles. “Maybe.”

“I think I should be the one beating people up in the future, thank you. I’m much better at it than you.”

“You’re welcome. Anytime.”

She very nearly smiles.


	3. The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, as usual, is at the mercy of Molly and her experimenting.

Sherlock frets over the rumble in 221B, kicking at the glass from the blown out windows as Mycroft and Molly sit facing each other behind him, glaring and sniping. He is still in somewhat of a panic, as he has been since Mycroft rang him in the dead of night.

_“She’s unharmed, but Baker Street did explode. Please, do try to remain calm, Sherlock.”_

The tightness of his chest abated a bit when they arrived to find Molly, showered and wearing hideous jumper number twenty-two, sitting in her chair with a morose Toby in her lap and her legs tucked beneath her. He crouched in front of her, touching her cheeks and shoulders and hands, checking her pupils and searching for other injuries until she batted away his hands with a terse, _really, Sherlock._

Now he attempts to board up the windows as Mycroft and Molly partake in the usual battle of the wills. She has never quite forgiven the elder Holmes brother for his actions during her most self-destructive period, and despite the way he saved her life, Molly remains stubborn when Mycroft attempts to tell her what to do.

“Molly! Molly!” Thundering footsteps and the voice of Dr. John Watson echo up the staircase. When he emerges a moment later he is winded, glancing wild-eyed about the flat.

“John,” Molly greets, hand moving from Toby’s head all the way down his body and along his tail. Her eyes never leave Mycroft. Surely she is staring at his forehead or that odd birthmark on his cheek because Molly does not do bouts of prolonged eye contact.

“I saw it on the telly,” says John, glancing briefly to Mycroft fiddling with his umbrella and to Sherlock fiddling with the windows before staring intently at Molly once more. “Are you okay?”

“Me? What?” asks Molly. She too surveys the room, gaze landing on Sherlock and the damage to the flat. “Oh, yes. Fine. Gas leak, apparently.” She goes back to scowling at Mycroft and gives Toby’s ear a particularly vigorous scratch. “I can’t,” she says.

“Can’t?” echoes Mycroft.

“The stuff I’ve got on is just too much. Much too much.” She waves a hand around her head. “I can’t possibly spare the time.”

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.”

“How’s the diet?” Molly asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as they have now reached the petty, childish portion of the program.

“Fine,” Mycroft says, drawing out the syllable. “Perhaps you can get through to her, John.”

Sherlock turns to the good doctor, surprised to catch him staring. He supposes his presence in John’s flat must seem strange as they’ve only briefly been in the lab together once, and Molly did not bother to properly introduce them as she hardly ever remembers such things. Although Sherlock’s heard a great deal about John, it is obvious that Molly has not told her flatmate anything about Sherlock.

He tries not to let it get to him.

“What?” says John, turning back to Molly. There is a bit of color in his cheeks and he clears his throat, glancing down at his shoes. “Sorry, what?”

“Oh, have you not met my brother, Sherlock?” Mycroft says, shooting Molly a look.

“Your brother? I didn’t know you had two brothers, Molly,” John says.

“I, in fact, have no brothers,” says Molly, scowling over her shoulder at Sherlock before she goes back to scowling at Mycroft.

“Wait,” says John. “What?”

“This domineering wanker is in no way related to me,” Molly says. “Mycroft is not my brother, nor does he have any right to tell me what to do.”

“Right,” says John, clearly not understanding. “Well, nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

He extends a hand. Sherlock takes it.

“Likewise,” he replies.

“I’m afraid our Miss Hooper can be very intransigent,” Mycroft continues, voice bored.

“If you’re so bloody keen, why don’t you investigate it,” Molly mutters.

“No, no,” says Mycroft, spinning his umbrella. “I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so...”

All eyes go to John, who looks uncomfortable under such scrutiny. Sherlock can hardly blame him.

“Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” continues Mycroft. “Besides, a case like this, it requires legwork. Isn’t that right, John?”

Sherlock has nothing to contribute as Mycroft and Molly “deduce” the poor doctor who apparently spent the night on Cyril’s sofa, but this is a rare opportunity to finally get to know this man that Molly inexplicably let into her life, so he decides to pay attention.

Sherlock sits on the arm of Molly’s chair and scratches Toby’s chin until they are done tormenting the doctor.

“What’s our dear Molly like to live with?” Mycroft asks. “Hellish, I imagine.”

“Well, I’m never bored,” replies John.

“Good. That’s good, isn’t it?” Mycroft rises and attempts to hand Molly a file. She turns up her nose and rolls her eyes at Sherlock.

When Molly proves uncooperative, Mycroft hands the file to John and begins filling him in on the details of the case Molly refuses to take, yammering on about a man dead on the train tracks and the missing plans to a newly developed missile system. Sherlock doesn’t care to hear the details. The small shades of gold in Molly’s otherwise dark eyes are far more interesting.

“Don’t make me order you,” Mycroft says as he departs, pointing his umbrella at Molly.

“I’d like to see you try,” she replies, prissy and prim.

“Think it over. Sherlock?”

Taking his cue to depart, he gives Molly’s shoulder a quick squeeze, once more reassuring himself that she is alive and unharmed, before following his brother.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, once more shaking John’s hand. The doctor returns the handshake, blushing and nodding. It makes Sherlock feel loads better about Molly’s current living situation.

“Yes, goodbye, John.” Mycroft extends his hand next. “See you very soon.”

As they walk down the stairs, John’s irate demand follows. “Not your brother? What do you mean, not your brother? Jesus, Molly.”

Mycroft and Sherlock exchange smiles, but manage to keep from laughing until they reach the car waiting for them out front.

* * *

Molly becomes obsessed with shoes, a pair of old trainers that may have been the pinnacle of style decades ago, but are now nothing, save for Molly’s latest obsession. When he asks for an explanation, she simply says, “Case.”

He does not push.

If this proves to be a good one, she’ll tell him eventually, and if not, then he doesn’t particularly care about the details or why these shoes are so important.

After his morning post mortems, he finds her in the lab, bent over her microscope of choice.

“Any luck?” Sherlock asks, nodding at John as he moves to Molly’s side.

“Oh, yes,” she replies. “It’s—“

“Hello.” A fourth person sticks his head in the room and Molly glares at the intrusion. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not a problem, Jim,” says Sherlock, waving him in. “This is Molly Hooper.”

“Ah,” says Jim, beaming.

“And Dr. Watson,” Sherlock says. But Jim only has eyes for Molly and Sherlock suddenly regrets making this introduction very much.

“Hi,” says John.

“Hi,” replies Jim, glancing at the doctor before going back to stare intently at the back of Molly’s head. “So you’re Molly Hooper. Sherlock’s told me all about you.”

Sherlock frowns, as this is not wholly accurate. He’s simply mentioned that Molly has access here and that her crime solving abilities are quite impressive.

“Are you on one of your cases?” asks Jim, despite Molly’s obvious disinterest.

“Jim’s new. Works in IT upstairs,” Sherlock explains. “Did you need something, Jim?”

“Yeah, we still on for lunch, Sherlock?”

He glances at his watch, surprised by the late hour. “Yes. Just give me a moment here. I’ll meet you out front. Say in ten?”

“Right, right.” Jim from IT backs up towards the door. “Well, it was really great to meet you, Molly.”

He pauses at the door, waiting for some response from the consulting detective. She continues her study and Sherlock highly doubts she will ever glance up.

“You too,” says John, finally, unable to endure the awkward tension another moment longer.

And then Jim from IT is gone.

“So, what did you find, Molly?” Sherlock asks, picking up where they left off before the interruption.

“Lunch date,” she says, glaring at him. “You’ve a lunch date. Shouldn’t you get to it?”

“Pardon?”

“Your date with this man from IT is obviously far more interesting than this case,” she says. “You may go.”

She waves a hand in his face and turns back to her microscope. Sherlock tries to refrain from smirking, for he has not seen Molly jealous in many years. There really is no other explanation for her current behavior.

“It’s not a date,” Sherlock says.

“Is he aware of that fact?”

“Course he is. He’s new, trying to make work friends. It’s not a date.”

“He’s very clearly gay,” she replies.

“Oh really?” asks John, crossing his arms over his chest.

Molly opens her mouth, ready to expound on all she’s observed that she considers proof of Jim’s homosexuality.

“No,” Sherlock interrupts. “No, I don’t need to hear it. I don’t care if you think it’s a date. It’s not. I have no interest in dating men, as you very well know, but I will be going to lunch with Jim as he is new and in need of work friends. Good luck with the case. Goodbye, John.”

He meets Jim from IT out front and they get Thai.

* * *

“Sherlock, have you ever done any sort of kissing?” Molly comes to stand beside his seat at the cafeteria, where he is sharing lunch with Victor, discussing anatomy and A levels.

“What? _What_! Pardon?” Sherlock blinks up at her, thinking that he must have misheard her. He glances at Victor who appears equally dumbfounded. If his friend’s expression is any indication, Molly did indeed speak that particularly bizarre combination of words.

“Kissing, Sherlock.” She snaps her fingers in his face. “Kissing. Do keep up.”

Molly is staring at his lips and Sherlock is sure that he’s fallen into some wonderfully strange alternative reality where Molly is not only interested in such things, but interested in Sherlock specifically.

Her hand is on his shoulder and she is still staring at his lips. Across the table, Victor clears his throat, snapping Sherlock out of his dazed state.

“Um, right,” he says, attempting to stand. His foot catches on the leg of the table and Molly steadies him, her hands on his hips. “Victor, if you’ll excuse us.”

Without looking at her, he strides out of the cafeteria. She then does the most peculiar thing, slipping her hand into his and lacing their fingers together. When he gets them to the hall, he stops so he can gape down at their joined hands without the distraction of walking.

“You are holding my hand, Molly,” he says. “You are holding my hand.”

“So? People do this sort of thing all the time. Surely I’ve held your hand before.”

“No, you most certainly have not.”

“I’m sure I have.”

“Molly.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Why are you holding my hand?”

Molly frowns at him as if he is an utter moron and then she smiles, that false, too bright smile that makes her eyes squint too much. It is the smile she gives him to convince him to go along with some outrageous scheme or another. He hates this smile because he knows she is using his affection for her to get whatever she wants, but he’s not once found the strength to say no.

“Sherlock, we are here to discuss _kissing_.” She pushes her body into his, fingers of her free hand walking up his tie.

Molly mimics the lovesick teenagers that fill this school and her execution is near perfect. If she tried the routine on someone who had not been watching her obsessively for the past seven years, then she would be completely convincing as the seductress.

“Molly,” he says, a warning, a plea.

“I’ve seen you, Sherlock Holmes. Watching me. And it’s not like before. Now you watch and you want.”

Her arms are around his neck now, her lips far too close to his, but she isn’t his Molly. She is acting, a reflection of all the behavior she’s observed around them, and he cannot stand it.

“Molly, stop.” His deep voice is harsh and a hint too mean. Molly seems to shrink, her arms dropping. To keep her from fleeing all together, he rests his hands on her shoulders. “What is this?”

She sighs and then pouts. “I read in a book about the effects of kissing on the various bodily systems and I would like to corroborate these findings.”

“So,” Sherlock says, striving to understand. “You need me for an experiment and rather than ask, you decide the best course of action is to seduce me?”

“A failed course of action, you tosser,” she mutters.

The pout of her lips is completely endearing and Sherlock smiles, finally giving into the urge to run his thumb over her cheekbone. Molly’s eyes go wide but she does not pull away.

“When you ask me something and do it nicely, have I ever said no?” he asks.

“No,” she concedes, looking thoroughly displeased.

“So why didn’t you just ask, Molly?”

She shrugs and Sherlock truly is a tosser for questioning her motives. If he could have ignored her little role-play, in all likelihood he would be kissing her right this moment.

“So have you?” she asks. Her eyes dart around his face, trying to find the answer.

“Have I? Have I what?”

“Done any sort of kissing.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “No, not as it were.”

“Excellent. No variables, then. Neither of us have done any sort of kissing.”

“And if I had done any sort of kissing?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares down at her. “Would you have found someone else to partake in this little experiment?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock grumbles under his breath and is relieved that he never gave into the advances of Nancy from his literature class.

“So here? Is here good?” she asks, glancing around the hallway.

“For kissing? No. People will be trickling out from lunch any moment now,” he replies. Once again, Molly is both the smartest and the stupidest person he’s ever met.

“Outside? In our tree?”

“Molly, it’s been raining all day. And I have class in fifteen minutes, as do you.”

“Dormitory, then. During dinner. My room’s a single. I’ll sneak you in.”

And she turns on her heel, marching down the hallway, leaving Sherlock to somehow brave the day acting somewhat normally, despite the promise of Molly and her mouth at the end of it.

* * *

Molly is late and Sherlock pops the collar of his coat against the chill as he considers the package of cigarettes in his pocket. Smoking would do well to calm his nerves and make the waiting a bit more bearable, but Molly glares and wrinkles her nose whenever he lights up around her, and he highly doubts she would appreciate the flavor on his tongue.

For Molly – if she ever bloody well shows up – will be tasting him.

It is a fantasy, a dream, and before this afternoon Molly’s reaction to anything having to do with romance was faint revulsion or total apathy. He’s been in love with her from the beginning, innocent and adoring when they were children but lustful now. He long considered the best way to go about wooing Molly, but had given up all hope.

Perhaps he was right to give up all hope. She is not here, but lateness is common for Molly.

“Did you know that Professors Henrick and Collins are having an affair?” she asks the moment she rounds the corner of the building.

“No,” says Sherlock, grinning at her. “How would I know that?”

“It’s plain as day. Easily observable.”

“May I remind you that not all of us have super powered brains.” He reaches out to hold her hand because Molly is beautiful and now that he knows what it feels like to slot his fingers between hers, he fears he will never be able to stop.

Molly’s expression does not change, nor has she made any eye contact as of yet, but she squeezes his hand in return.

“I think I should tell them to stop,” she says.

“Stop their affair?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“But Sherlock, Professor Collins is married! If his wife were to find out, she would be devastated.”

“Molly, we’ve talked about this.” Sherlock sounds disturbingly like Mycroft.

“I know, I know. Not my place,” she says, pouting. “I just care too much!”

“No, no.” Feeling brave, he runs his thumb over her cheekbone once more. Molly finally manages to look at him. “It’s not that you care too much. Don’t listen to Mycroft. He’s a machine. You are brilliant and it’s brilliant that you care, but you’ve got to learn that you can’t make the world work the way you think it should. You can’t save them all, Mo.”

She smiles down at her feet and he feels it in his chest.

“I’ll delete it,” she says.

“If you think it’s necessary.”

“No point in keeping it if I’m not going to do anything with it,” she says, waving a hand around her head. “I believe we have an appointment.”

“A kissing appointment?”

“Yes.” She pulls him into the dormitory. “Quickly now, Sherlock. Before dinner lets out and these halls are once more crawling with our peers.”

* * *

Molly marches him into her room, slams the door behind them, and pushes him down to sit on her narrow bed. She kneels at his side, staring intently at his lips, and Sherlock doesn’t have time to be nervous for Molly dives in with characteristically high levels of enthusiasm.

It is not nearly as pleasant and moving as first kisses are often depicted in films. In fact, it hurts. Molly’s chin bumps his and in all likelihood it will bruise.

“Huh,” Molly says, pulling back and blinking rapidly. “Well, those books are obviously exaggerating accounts. Thank you for your time, Sherlock. That will be all.”

She stands, moving towards the door, but Sherlock grabs her wrists and tugs her back. With a squeak she ends up in his lap.

“That’s hardly enough evidence,” he says. “Shame on you, Miss Hooper. Typically you are so thorough.”

“Fine,” she mutters, resting her hands on his chest. She squeezes her eyes shut and puckers her lips to a humorously absurd degree.

Sherlock takes a moment to simply smile at her. She really is so perfect, his Molly, and the ridiculous expression on her face makes him soft, makes him warm. Focusing on her expression, he commits her to memory, just like this.

He presses his lips to her cheek first, lingering for a moment to smell her hair, and Molly relaxes. Her eyes stay closed, but her features smooth out.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispers.

“Sherlock, beauty is a social construct that—“

“Beautiful.” He traces her cheekbones with his thumbs and kisses each of her closed eyelids.

Molly giggles at the contact, the sound tinkling and light. “Sherlock! You are so silly.”

He finds her lips now, sweet and pert and perfect, and he decides that this is their first kiss. It is soft, slow, and just as he always imagined it would be, slight edge of tension and awkwardness and all.

For once, Molly follows his lead, opening her mouth to mimic his. She whimpers slightly and Sherlock cannot recall ever being so happy.

They compile several hours worth of data and when Sherlock leaves they both agree that they will need hours more.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Elbows deep in a cadaver, he jerks at the sound of his name and the panic in her voice, only his years of experience of being accosted at odd times by Molly keeping him from doing serious damage to the unexamined organs still in the body.

"What's happened," he says, holding his bloodied hands up and moving to loom over her.  There is no visible sign of injury but she is shaking violently.

"You weren't at the flat. And I... You weren't at the flat."

"I know. Picked up a shift."

Molly nods. Making eye contact has never come easy to her, but now every few seconds she meets his gaze.

"Are you high?" he asks, voice low, serious, dangerous. 

"No."  He thought his question would anger her, but she answers as if she was expecting it.  "I'm not.  Promise, Sherlock."

He nods, believing her despite her slightly dilated eyes and the way her hands shake. 

"When did you last sleep?"  The bloody gloves on his hands are a curse as he desperately needs to touch her as he did after the explosion at Baker Street, simply to convince himself that she remains unscathed.

"Near on a week."

"Go lie down in my office."  He sticks his hip at her and she reaches in his pocket for his keys.  "I'm nearly done here."

Molly doesn't move.

"Alright?" he asks again.

She stares right at him, maintaining eye contact for a full fifteen seconds, before nodding and turning away.

As he is a professional, Sherlock really strives to do his best work with the end of this autopsy, but he ends up rushing it a bit.  After scrubbing his hands, he basically sprints to his office, part of him convinced that when he arrives she will be gone. 

Perhaps she is high. 

Perhaps he let her go and she'll disappear into the underbelly of London, as she's done before. 

Perhaps this was the last time he'll see her alive, and in a few weeks Mycroft will ring him, saying they've found her dead under a bridge.

He is sick with worry by the time he reaches his office several floors up from the mortuary, but it is all for naught.  She is curled up on the loveseat.  His Belstaff covers her completely, save for her head, and she stares at nothing with wide eyes.

"Molly?" He crouches in front of her and she focuses on his face immediately.

Her hand emerges from his coat and her fingertips find his cheekbones.  It's been so long since she's touched him that Sherlock cannot contain the hitch in his breath as a combination of warmth and fear fills him.  For a few silent moments, he allows her to explore the planes of his face with her fingers, to intently study him with all her senses.

"What's happened?" he asks again when her hand drops.

"Nothing," she says, sitting up. "I don't even know what I am doing here.  Stupid.  Of course you are totally fine."

"I am.  I'm totally fine."

"You're working."  His coat is pooled in her lap and her hands fist in the fabric. "I should let you get back to it."

Never before has Molly showed any qualms about demanding his time while he works.  Or while he is on dates. Or while he’s doing anything, really.

Frowning, Sherlock moves from the floor to the sofa.  He covers his lap with the coat as well so they are sharing it as a blanket.

"What’s happened, Molly?"

"Jim from IT."

Sherlock's new work friend about the last thing he expected Molly to bring up in this moment. "Pardon?"

"He strapped a vest of semtex on John, nearly blew him up."

"Pardon!"

And then she explains the events of the previous few days, rattling on in that detached monotone that would have him believe that she truly is a sociopath if he didn't know better.  The tale she relays is horrifying as she connects Jim from IT – _Moriarty –_ to the bomb threats of the past week, the murder of a TV personality, and a faker Vermeer.

"Carl Powers," she says.

"From grade school?  What of him?"

"He died.  We were sixteen.  Do you remember?"

"Course I remember.  You didn't eat for nine days." 

It was her first real case, as she called it even then, and her single-minded fixation scared Sherlock.  In the years since, he's seen her obsessed with a number of things - sex, heroin, murder - but at sixteen he could not understand how she could be so consumed with the drowning of their classmate. 

Carl Powers was a shit, plain and simple.  He taunted Molly and more than once Sherlock very nearly punched him for it, but his death left their whole class shaken. 

Except for Molly. 

Her fixation was on the circumstance and she did not appear to feel even a twinge of sadness at his passing. It was as if the moment helping him was no longer even a possibility, she stopped caring.

Still, when she insisted that Carl Powers was murdered, providing his missing shoes as evidence, Sherlock believed her.

“The shoes,” Sherlock says, shocked. “You had them in the lab and they…”

“Belonged to Carl Powers,” she finishes. “ _Clostridium botulinum._ It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet. Introduced into his eczema medication. Explains the fit in the pool.”

Sherlock needs a moment to absorb all this and Molly does not remove his arm when he loops it around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest.

"But we didn't go to school with him," he says,  "With Jim.  I would have remembered his face."

"No, he did not attend school with us.  I've been looking into how he knew Carl.  And he did know him, said that Carl laughed at him, so he stopped his laughing. Said that Carl was mean."

"Well, that's not exactly inaccurate."

"No, it isn't."

After several long moments spent in silence, Molly relaxes into his side, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.  He presses his lips to the top of her head and she stops trembling. 

He wants to ask her why she tore into his mortuary, flying into a panic when she was unable to locate him at his flat.  He wants her to say the words, wants to hear that after seeing John with a vest of explosives she needed to see Sherlock safe too.  She was worried about him because she cares, because he is important.

Instead he drops a final kiss to her forehead and pulls back.  He crosses the room to his desk, opening a drawer and retrieving a sandwich.  He hands it to Molly.

"Eat," he instructs.

"What is it?" she asks, removing the sandwich from it's wrapping and sniffing it.  

"Ham."

She devours it in less than five bites.

"Do you want to go back to mine?  Sleep it off," he suggests.

She shakes her head, already lying back down and covering herself with his Belstaff.

* * *

When he finishes his shift seven hours later, she is still asleep in his office.  He wakes her gently and pulls on his coat.  On the way to his flat, they stop for fish and chips.  He lets her eat half of his, knowing full well that he'll need a whole second meal once they get home.

They walk in silence, but Molly stays closer than she normally would.  It is not often that Molly gets rattled, but the incident with John and the explosives has her reacting like a typical person would.  She is shaken and the man responsible is still at large.

At the thought Sherlock is no longer hungry.

He gets his front door open and holds it for Molly to pass.  Once inside he throws all the locks she herself installed when they first moved in.  It makes him feel fractionally safer, but Jim from IT has Sherlock thoroughly shaken as well.

Molly's already disappeared upstairs and he follows, planning on retrieving his violin from his room to play a bit.  She likes that, prefers his music over the other mindless activities available to them in his home - telly, movies, and the like.

The moment he steps through the threshold of his room, Molly is on him, pushing him back to the bed with all that hidden strength of hers.  In his shock, Sherlock falls back to the mattress, bouncing once before Molly straddles his waist.  She pulls hideous jumper number five - the one with the cherries - over her head, leaving her in only a simple black bra.

Sherlock reaches up to pull the tie from her hair and it falls in a curtain around them.

The sight is achingly familiar and it's been so long since this was anything but a fantasy, a dream.  She's not allowed him to touch her like this - his hands on the lean expanse of her abdomen – or see her likes his – staring at her chest and her eyes and her mouth and then back to her eyes - in near a decade, not since her father died and she started using heroin instead of Sherlock to calm the constant buzz of activity in her brain.

Deft fingers pop the buttons of his white shirt, and he sits up, allowing her to push shirt and blazer from his shoulders in one irritating mass.  These clothes are tossed to the floor also.

Molly is as beautiful as she's always been, perhaps more so.  He is rather stunned stupid by her beauty and he cannot determine if this is due to any changes in her physical form or if the time spent apart has made her brighter and him more in awe.

The woman atop him seems equally enraptured and her small, capable hands roam his chest, his arms, his shoulders.  He is certainly more muscular than he was at twenty-three, although he remains lean and unimpressive. 

Except Molly does not appear to find him unimpressive.

He wonders for a brief moment if she's done this with anyone else, if she has ever had another bare and vulnerable beneath her, totally at her mercy.  It seems impossible given that the only human she's shown much interest in since getting clean is a homosexual doctor who seems to prefer one night stands to messy emotional entanglements, but Sherlock still has no idea what she got up to when she spent nearly all her time high.

Molly continues to catalog his body, rememorizing him with eyes and hands.  When that exploration proves insufficient, she uses her mouth – lips, tongue, teeth.  He closes his eyes and runs his hands through her silky hair, trying not to think on how very painful this will all become in the morning when he inevitably wakes alone.

Not thinking becomes decidedly easier when Molly's lips finally find his. Her taste proves his memory inferior and he groans into the kiss, reaching up to cradle her face between his hands.  Above him Molly is shaking again, her fingers digging into his wrists.  She is desperate at first, but eventually she calms somewhat, her hands once again roaming his skin.  Her nails leave behind red rivets at his wrists, her grip on him so tight she breaks skin, but he feels no pain, only heat and Molly.

He rids her of her bra, marveling at the smooth expanse of her back. When his hands find her breasts, Molly leans forward into his touch.

“Molly.” He groans and then she is kissing him again, whimpering into his mouth and making him ache.

She rolls her hips over his erection and Sherlock wants to take up residence in this moment, to never let her leave.

But then she pulls away.

With a growl of frustration, Molly stands up fully on the mattress.  She struggles to strip her tight black trousers.  He sits up to assist and she balances herself with hands on his shoulders as he removes the remainder of her clothes. For a few moments she stands naked and glorious before him and breathing becomes nearly impossible but then in a blink she is lying flat on her back at his side.

He raises a questioning eyebrow, glancing down at her.

"I want, I need..." She waves her hands at her chest. "Your weight, Sherlock. Please."

It is a rare, genuine _please._

Smirking at her, Sherlock wiggles out of his own trousers and then promptly falls upon her, following her instructions too literally and thoroughly crushing her slight body beneath him.

"Sherlock!" she admonishes, freeing her hands to slap at his back. 

But then she laughs, bright and free.

It is such a rare sound and throughout his youth Sherlock prided himself on his ability to make Molly Hooper really, truly laugh.

She kisses him again, fingers back in his curls, and there is joy in this now, where there was only desperation before. He can feel her smile against his lips.

His hand is between her legs and he could never forget this. As much as he’s attempted – and failed spectacularly – to purge Molly from his system, he could never forget how to touch her, how to make her moan and writhe and demand more.

With his last bit of coherence he manages to locate a condom from his bedside drawer.

“Hurry,” she whispers. “Sherlock, hurry.”

He does. And it feels like coming home.

* * *

She wakes him twice more throughout the night, once with her mouth, once straddling his hips again, but in the morning he opens his eyes to find an empty bed, as predicted.

The accuracy of his foresight does not make the reality any less painful.

* * *

It takes very little time for Molly to escalate their “experiments.”

After a month of spending a significant amount of time kissing her, Sherlock is forced to schedule such sessions around studying, for Molly completely loses interest in school. He barters two hours of study for half an hour of snogging, until one day Sherlock enters her room, arms laden with books, to find her laid out flat on her back, completely naked.

Sherlock promptly drops all the books.

“Finally!” she says, huffing with exasperation. She sits up on her elbows to scowl at him. “You’re late and I’ve been waiting forever.”

Sherlock is forced to clear his throat no less than three times and he gives up pretending not to stare blatantly.

“Well if I knew you’d be naked, I’d have hurried.”

“That’s offensive, Sherlock. Is it only this ridiculous body that merely serves for transport of my mind that interests you?”

Perhaps if his mind were currently functioning he’d laugh and roll his eyes. As it is, he can do nothing but continue his gaping.

Molly sighs. “Really, Sherlock. It’s just transport.”

He snorts.

“Come here, you silly boy,” she says, lying flat once more. “It’s time we changed the experiment, don’t you think?”

He trips twice in his haste to get to her. This might have something to do with the speed at which he attempts to strip his uniform.

Molly does a lot of ogling herself, considering it’s just transport.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is so lovely! I'm glad all you all are enjoying this. Seriously, you are wonderful for reading.
> 
> Beta: Monica, aka mattressesflollop


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the incident and three Christmases.

After _the_ _incident_ , Molly disappears, not from London but certainly from Sherlock’s life. He keeps up with her staggering caseload through Dr. John’s blog and occasionally catches a glimpse of her at Bart’s, but she does not linger. Nor does she look at him when John or Mary pause to chat.

One lazy Sunday he retrieves his morning paper only to see Molly glaring up at him from the front page. She wears a ridiculous hat and is very obviously unhappy to be caught on camera.

It becomes a common occurrence, Molly appearing in the papers. Sometimes he crumples her image in his hand, tossing the pictures in his fireplace or waste bin. Mostly he is equal parts hurt and relieved. Seeing her in the press is not pleasant, but at least he can be sure that she is alive and breathing.

In the months between _the incident_ and Christmas, Sherlock goes on three dates with three perfectly lovely women. He does not call them back, but simply taking them to dinner is enough to keep Mycroft from accusing him of _pining_.

He gets drinks with Mike Stamford and Mary Morstan. He devotes hours of his free time to his violin. He places his monthly phone call to Mummy and completes postmortem after postmortem.

All in all, _the incident_ does nothing to change his life, but Molly’s effectively ripped open old wounds. They never healed in the first place – he doubts they ever will – but now they feel fresh as they day she told him “caring is not an advantage” and then abruptly stopped doing so.

He braves the wet and the cold to do a bit of Christmas shopping and runs into Molly’s doctor and her Detective Inspector outside Bart’s.

“Sherlock!” says John. Sherlock wonders if the good doctor will ever be able to refrain from blushing when they speak. “Happy Christmas. Are you coming to our little holiday party?”

“Holiday party?”

“At Baker Street.”

“You and Molly are having a holiday party at Baker Street?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Well, Molly isn’t particularly keen on the idea but I want to see everyone before heading off to the country to visit Harry. I told her to invite you,” he continues, searching Sherlock’s face. It is apparently clear that she failed to follow this direction. “But you know Molly.” He shrugs and winces.

“Indeed I do.”

“So will you come? It’s this Friday.”

“I don’t think—“

“You’re coming,” says Mary. “Of course you’re coming. I need someone to get pissed with.”

He considers for a moment. Molly surely doesn’t want him there, but he’s done nothing wrong. It was her that pushed him into bed, stripped naked, and said, “Hurry, Sherlock. Hurry.”

This was her folly and although Sherlock was a willing participant, he will not be made invisible any longer.

“I’ll be there,” he says.

* * *

Molly glances at him briefly, narrowed eyes darting from his face to his bag of presents, as he removes his coat before she turns back to her laptop and starts bickering with John over his blog.

Sherlock is resolved to have a pleasant evening despite her.

Or perhaps to spite her.

“Can I get you a drink, Sherlock?” asks Mary, her hand on his shoulder.

“That’d be lovely. Whatever you are having is fine.”

“Wine,” says Molly, without looking up. “Sherlock is utterly devoted to his wine. Red. The Pinot Noir.”

Mary glances at Sherlock, raising a single eyebrow. He takes a break from scowling at the back of Molly’s head to nod to the DI. She moves to the kitchen and all the alcohol laid out on the table.

“How’s the hip, Mrs. Hudson?” he asks the landlady for lack of anything better to do.

“Oh, it’s atrocious. But thanks for asking.”

“Well, I’ve seen much worse,” he says, accepting the glass from Mary. He lifts the glass it in thanks. “But then I do post mortems.”

Mary snorts into her drink and Sherlock is pleased that at least one person finds him entertaining.

“Don’t make jokes, Sherlock,” snaps Molly.

Once upon a time, Molly also found him entertaining.

“Oh, sorry.” He glares and gives her a mocking bow, voice reeking of sarcasm. “Please accept my deepest and most sincere apologies.”

Molly goes back to ignoring him.

There is a bit of awkward silence that Sherlock feels compelled to fill. “So, John. When are you off to see your sister?”

“In the morning,” replies the doctor. He sits on the back of a chair behind a thin, dark-haired man Sherlock met last week over drinks. Despite this, he cannot recall John’s boyfriend’s name. “First time ever she’s cleaned up her act. She’s off the booze.”

“Nope,” says Molly.

“Shut up, _Molly_ ,” replies John.

Sherlock is beginning to regret his decision to attend this event.

“I see you’ve got a new girlfriend, Sherlock,” Molly says without looking away from John’s laptop. “And you’re serious about her.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock blinks at her. “What?”

“In fact you are seeing her this very night. And you are giving her a gift.”

Understanding what she’s getting at, Sherlock smirks and sips his wine, perfectly pleased to stand back and allow Molly to make an utter arse of herself. “Am I?”

“Take a day off,” John mutters.

“Shut up and have a drink.” Mary even delivers her one, but Molly will not be deterred.

“Surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag.” She gets to her feet and Sherlock simply sips his wine as she approaches. “Perfectly wrapped. With a bow! All the others are a slapdash, at best.”

This is wholly accurate for the others he purchased only after deciding to attend the party, to make it seem less odd when he left a gift for Molly.

“So something special, then,” she says. Her smile is that overly bright, false bit of cheer that Sherlock loathes. “The shade of purple echoes his shirt, an unconscious association or one that he’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Mr. Holmes has _love_ on the mind. The fact that he’s serious about her is clear from the fact that he’s giving her a gift at all. That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn.”

That last bit did actually hurt. Sherlock finishes his wine.

“And the fact that he’s seeing her tonight is evident from the product in his hair and what he’s wearing, obviously trying to compensate for the length of his face…” She trails off as she picks up the gift in question to see her name on the card.

The silence is much more uncomfortable this time around and Sherlock simply shakes his head, moving to the kitchen for a refill of wine. Molly is looking directly at him when he returns a moment later.

“It’s for me,” she murmurs.

“Of course it’s for you,” he replies, glaring.

“Why would you give this to me here?” she demands, suddenly as angry as he is. “Why not at home?”

“Wait. Sorry. At home?” asks John. “Whose home?”

“I haven’t seen you for months!” All plans to remain calm and unaffected evaporate as he looms over her. She lifts her chin in defiance and returns his scowl. “How was I to know you were even planning on coming to Christmas?”

“I always come to Christmas!”

“Not always.”

Molly winces and looks away. Referencing her period of drug abuse was a low blow given that this will be her sixth sober Christmas.

“I’m coming home for Christmas,” she murmurs. “Give it to me then.”

“Whose home?” John demands again.

Molly ignores him, too busy returning the gift to Sherlock’s bag, leaving it as she found it.

“The Holmes Estate,” Sherlock replies.

“Why would Molly go there?”

“She essentially grew up on the property, John, and spent many holidays there even before her father passed. Didn’t you ever wonder how she knew Mycroft? Why my brother has always felt so comfortable doling out orders?” Sherlock asks.

John looks thoroughly gob smacked. “So… you’ve known each other how long?”

“Decades, John. Do keep up.” Molly is standing before Sherlock again, looking soft and sorry.

He regards her warily.

“I’m sorry.” Her hands are on the lapels of his jacket. There is panic in her voice. “Forgive me? Sherlock, forgive me.”

Because he is pathetic, Sherlock nods.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.” She pulls on his jacket and he ducks his head, closing his eyes as she kisses the corner of his mouth. She lingers longer than is decent given their company, and he pushes his fingers through her hair, seizing the opportunity as she is wearing it down for once.

And then there is a sound. A distinctly feminine and orgasmic sound that has Molly squeaking and jumping away from him.

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Sherlock says for the benefit of everyone who is staring. The noise was feminine, but certainly does not belong to Molly either. Sherlock would know.

“It was me,” she says, digging around in her pocket.

“Was it really?” asks Mary, soundly completely fascinated.

“No it wasn’t,” Sherlock insists. He knows all of Molly’s sounds. That was not one of them.

“My phone.” She gives them all that look as if she is offended by their collective ignorance as she brandishes the device in question.

“Fifty-seven,” says John.

“I’m sorry. What?” asks Molly, obviously distracted by whatever is happening on her screen.

“Fifty-seven of those texts. And those are only the ones I’ve heard.”

Sherlock is suddenly jealous. Very Jealous.

“You’ve been counting?” Molly is fixated on the mantelpiece and she moves to stand before to stare at it better. She locates a bright red package and promptly excuses herself.

Yes, Sherlock is suddenly very jealous indeed.

* * *

"What are we, Mo?"  He lies across the bench seat, his head in her lap, eyes closed.  With the train rocking him and Molly's fingers carding through his hair, he could fall asleep with great ease but he fights the instinct, needing to have the answer before they arrive home where his brother will know the instant he lays eyes on them that something has changed in these last months.

"Carbon based life forms, homo sapiens.  Surely, you know this Sherlock.  You plan to study anatomy at uni!"

Her deep incredulity has him grinning.  "No, Molly.  I mean us.  You and me. What are we? How would you define our relationship?"

"Oh." 

Beneath his head, he feels her tense, her fingers faltering in their steady combing of his dark curls.

She does this often. Says it helps her think.

The relaxation of a moment before is gone and he opens one eye with great trepidation to check her facial expressions.  Her brow is furrowed, lips puckered.  With her free hand she taps her chin.  It is her familiar look of deep thought.  She's retreated to her Mind Palace and there she will stay as she sorts through all she's cataloged on relationships and the like.

Given Molly's struggle with socializing, it probably will not be long, but to Sherlock the wait is excruciating. 

He should have said nothing.  Now she will realize all the hours she's wasted above him, below him, in bed, and she will end it immediately.  He should have gone on forever not saying anything, enjoying her. 

She is everything he's ever wanted and now he's gone and ruined it.

"Sexual... partners?" she finally ventures.  She blinks down at him. It is not often Molly appears confused and the wary expression on her face is endearing.

"Oh, is that all?" he asks, smirking only slightly.

"Not good?"

"Could be better."

"You object to the term sexual partners to describe 'us' because it reduces our relationship to intercourse only and fails to take into account our history as close companions.  Such a title removes sentiment."

"Correct as usual, Miss Hooper."  He grins up at her and beneath his head she jiggles her knee, a sure sign that if not for their current location in a narrow train car, she would be up and pacing.

"Lovers is certainly more intimate, but you will object to this also, on the grounds that we are young and this term sounds like something out of a classic work of literature or divorce court."

Sherlock laughs and despite her current focus, the corner of her lips twitches up into a slight smile.

"We take nearly all our meals together,” she continues, “but these can hardly be considered dates as they are consumed in the cafeteria. Still, several weeks ago you forced me to the cinema for a movie and paid for my ticket.  This could easily be considered a date."

"Very good, Molly."

"We’ve discussed attending uni together and although this was based on shared interests, friendship, and Mycroft's near constant worry for us both, since we took up copulating on a regular basis, the decision to remain together takes on new meaning."

"And based on all this, what do you conclude?" he asks.

"I am... Am I your girlfriend, Sherlock?" Molly's cheeks turn pink.  Her blush is absolutely unprecedented and it did not occur even when she asked him to kiss her as part of an experiment or when she stripped totally naked before him for the first time.

"Do you want to be my girlfriend, Molly?"

"I do want you to be my boyfriend, I think. Yes, I do.  Nothing else makes sense."

Delighted, Sherlock laughs and then rears up, kissing her soundly. Molly sighs against his lips, her fingers once more tangling in his hair.

"Do we have to tell Mycroft?" she asks.

"Must you mention Mycroft in between kisses?"

"Really, Sherlock."

"We do not have to tell anyone.  In fact, refusing to give Mycroft any details will annoy him endlessly."

"Excellent. Although he’ll figure it out anyway. Right away, I would imagine."

The rest of the trip passes quickly as they keep themselves occupied with more snogging.

When they emerge on the platform, rumpled and red faced and grinning, Mycroft takes one look at them, grimaces, shakes his head, and mutters, "bloody hell."

“Happy Christmas, Mycroft,” replies Molly. “Did you really get me books again? Not very creative, are you. I am a girl, you know. Maybe I want a spot of jewelry. That was a joke, Mycroft. Do not buy me jewelry. I have no interest.”

* * *

After the Christmas autopsy – of a woman that Molly identified despite her missing face – Sherlock finds Mycroft in the hallway outside the mortuary. Without a word his brother extends a cigarette.

“Just the one,” Sherlock says. “This is highly illegal.”

“We’re in a morgue,” says Mycroft. “There is only so much damage one can do.”

He inhales deeply, groaning on the exhale. “I’ve quit,” he says.

“Apparently.”

“You wanted me to see that,” Sherlock says, waving his hand at the door.

“It’s not healthy, your continued fixation on Molly. She’s obviously moved on and you need to as well.”

“So Molly was with the woman on my table? As in… truly _with_ her, with her? The one without a face?” Sherlock asks. He struggles to hide the depth of his displeasure from his brother and then gives up the game, smoking in earnest now.

“Not in the strictest sense,” replies Mycroft. “But Molly… cared. That much at least is obvious.”

Sherlock inhales more deeply this time. It feels like a physical blow, worse than a physical blow. There is little he could hear from Mycroft that would prove more painful. It’s been ages since Molly cared. It started with John but this is a different matter entirely.

The last time Molly lost someone she cared for, they nearly lost her. In many ways Sherlock did lose her.

He finishes the cigarette, puts it out on the bottom of his shoe, and takes another from his brother.

“You better call John,” says Sherlock.

“She’s on her way,” says Mycroft a moment later when he gets the doctor on the line. “Have you found anything?”

“No.” John’s voice is muffled but Sherlock is standing close enough to hear the other end of the conversation. “Well, it looks like she’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual hiding places. Are you sure tonight is a danger night?”

Sherlock blows out more smoke into his mortuary, watching it dance in the dim light.

“No, but then I never am. You have to stay with her, John.”

“I’ve got plans.”

“No,” says Mycroft.

“I’ll pick her up in the morning,” says Sherlock. “She’s planning on coming with us to Mummy’s. I’ll be there in the morning.”

* * *

When he gets to Baker Street in the morning he hears Molly muttering in the kitchen, but John stops him in the entryway before Sherlock can see her.

“Listen, has she ever had a girlfriend or boyfriend? Any sort of relationship ever?”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and raises a single questioning eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking.”

“And when it ended?”

“The beginning of her descent into the world of narcotics,” Sherlock answers. “Although that might be better explained by the sudden death of her father.”

John nods. “Molly? Sherlock is here. Are you all packed?”

“Yes,” she says, appearing in a black jumper, monstrous orange pajamas, and the red leather jacket. Toby is content, cradled in her arms. “Let’s go.”

“Where’s your bag?” asks John.

Molly jiggles Toby.

“You’ll be gone for the next few days. Till New Years.”

“I’ll steal Sherlock’s things. It’s fine.” She hands over Toby and the cat immediately starts to purr in Sherlock’s arms.

John is stunned silent again, as Toby’s hate for all people not Molly is somewhat legendary.

“I’m assuming Mycroft got us a car due to my supposed emotional upheaval,” she asks.

Sherlock nods.

“Excellent. No need to force Toby into the carrier. No need for you to be ashamed to be seen with me in these pajamas. Goodbye, John. I’ll be back for the New Year, apparently.”

* * *

“Molly, dear, come sit with me.” Violet Holmes beckons from the sofa by the fire, arms wide, smile adoring.

At the sound of her name Molly jerks from her position at the window where she was intently staring out into the dark at nothing. She’s been disturbingly quiet, from the car ride through dinner and now.

Still, when Mummy calls, Molly dutifully shuffles across the room to join her on the sofa.

“There is my best girl,” says Mummy, getting her arms around Molly. She stays tense for a moment until Mummy strokes her hair and Molly leans into her side, closing her eyes.

Although Mummy was not thrilled by his relationship with Molly, since the break up and her sobriety, she has gone back to doting on Molly, as she did when they were children.

When she was home, anyway.

The whole scene distracts Sherlock, and when he looks back to the puzzle he was working on with his brother, it is nearly completed.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock snaps. “You promised to go slow!”

“This was painfully slow,” he drawls in reply, sounding bored. “You picked a stunningly easy one this year, brother-mine.”

“It is 5000 pieces of solid blue!”

“Not solid.” And Mycroft adds the final piece.

Sherlock slumps back in his chair. “Why do I put up with this? Every Christmas. All I want is to sit by a fire and do a puzzle. Not blink to see you’ve finished!”

“I think you got a total of nine pieces this year. Good show.”

“Mycroft!”

“You always get so delightfully angry. This is one tradition I would never give up.”

“It wouldn’t be Christmas without these two sniping at each other, now would it, Molly?” murmurs Mummy.

Molly hums her agreement as Mummy begins to braid Molly’s hair.

“You’ve been awfully quiet this year. No deductions of all the presents under the tree, no case distracting you. Is everything all right?” asks Mummy.

Sherlock wants a real answer and is desperate to know just who the faceless woman on his table was to Molly. The so-called emotionless detective is grieving and Sherlock would be there for her, if only he knew how, if only he was not too wrapped up in his own jealousy over a dead woman.

“Just tired, Violet,” she replies. “That’s all. I’m tired.”

“Ah, well. Understandable. All those cases.”

“How do you know about all that?”

“I read the blog, of course.”

Molly huffs, but does not pull away.

* * *

Dr. George Hooper likes the company of Mycroft more than he does that of his own daughter.  It is the only reason he agrees to venture to the big house for Christmas.  On ordinary days, he is a hopeless homebody, utterly devoted to his small cottage and adjoining practice.

As is typical, he ignores his daughter in favor of discussing politics and local gossip with Mycroft.  Molly seems to not notice her father's indifference, but Sherlock knows better. 

Perhaps after all these years of being forgotten, Molly is simply used to it.

George Hooper did not want children.  It was one of many reasons his marriage to Margo Hooper ended.  Her alcoholism certainly played a large role in the separation and the divorce was so painful that Margo neglected to mention her pregnancy.

George only found out about Molly after Margo's death.  He only agreed to take her after extensive DNA testing to prove her truly his.

Still, after all these years, George remains wholly uninterested in his brilliant daughter.  He barely cared when she was failing out of the local school nor does he do more than grunt in acknowledgment when Molly attempts to show him her perfect marks now.  He did not hug her or express any sort of pride when she aced her A levels and got accept to university.

Sherlock is not fond of George in the slightest and it is painful to see Molly try so hard. He sometimes wonders what would have become of Molly if she never met the Holmes brothers.  She would have no one, no Sherlock to be her friend and no Mycroft to be her councilor, just a dead mother, a neglectful father, and peers who taunt her.

"The chemistry of cooking is rather fascinating," Molly says.  She sits on the kitchen counter, eating walnuts and watching Sherlock prepare Christmas dinner. "And you are so very attractive like this, working away over supper."

"Oh am I?"  He washes his hands.  There is little to do now but wait for their meal to cook. 

"You should roll your sleeves up more often," she says, swinging her feet as she pops another nut in her mouth.  "I find myself aroused by your forearms."

Sherlock laughs and moves to stand between her knees.  He waves his forearms in front of her face, hamming it up and generally acting with an excess of silliness.

"Sherlock!" Molly shrieks as he runs a forearm under her nose.  "You're ruining it.  You're ruining it!"

She giggles, the sound sweet and appealing.  It almost keeps him from kissing her, for he enjoys hearing it so, but not quite.  She loops her arms around his neck as she sighs into the kiss.  With hands on her hips, he slides her closer. 

Molly is warm.  She's here and his.  Kissing her is the one thing that matters.  Mummy's absence and George’s indifference are nothing as long as Molly wants him.

"Ah hem."

The sound of his brother's irritated little throat clear, Sherlock frowns and removes his lips from Molly's.  They both turn to glower at Mycroft.  He studies the handle of his umbrella.

"This little... affair has gotten no less disgusting since you informed me of your relationship last Christmas," he says.

"We told you nothing," says Sherlock.  "You _observed_."

"Oh, you've offended him, Mycroft," Molly says, fiddling with his curls.  "It’s your use of the term affair, no doubt. He prefers the term dating, delightful fellow he is. Isn't he adorable when he's cranky?"

Her words thoroughly annoy both Holmes brothers and she cackles with unrestrained glee.

"Regardless," says Mycroft.  "You might want to refrain from gratuitous displays of affection in the presence of George or he may not allow Molly to spend the night.  Now, come. Be sociable."

* * *

Around her father, Molly makes herself small.

When they were young, other children – with their cruelty and taunting and hate for anything different – Molly would shrink behind Sherlock, choosing to remain silent rather than say the wrong thing.  It is a habit she thankfully outgrew, but after years of trying so desperately to make her father love her as she loves him, Molly remains conditioned to be small in George's presence.

After they finish the meal – one of the best Sherlock's ever created and he is immensely satisfied with his effort – they linger at the table, drinking and chatting.  In the chair next to him, Molly sits straight-backed and uncomfortable, her hands folded in her lap.  She wears a fitted red dress, a gift from Mycroft last Christmas and his brother's latest attempt to get Molly to "dress like a lady."  She's beautiful and uncomfortable. Sherlock finds himself missing her hideous jumpers despite the way they disguised her curves.

At some point in the evening she tucked a poinsettia behind her ear. It is bright and festive, like Molly when her father is not around.

Sherlock is feeling lazy and warm, a result of the wine, the holiday, and Molly at his side.  He flashes her a small smile and Molly relaxes, reaching out for her own drink.

"So," says Mycroft.  "One semester in and you are both shining stars of the university.  I recently spoke to Professor Thomas about you, Molly."

"Really?" she asks, tense all over again. Under the table, Sherlock squeezes her knee and she latches on to his hand.  "I know I answer too many questions and ask too many questions.  I'll be quiet next semester, if he'll just let me stay in his class.  And I'll stop sneaking into his lab after hours."

"No," says Mycroft, frowning.  "It's quite the opposite of all that, my dear.  He just raved about you.  I believe the term he used was chemistry prodigy."

"Oh," she says, slumping against the back of her chair.

"If you continue to take an interest in chemistry, I imagine he'll take you on as a research assistant.  Have you considered getting your degree in this field?" asks Mycroft.

"Well, I always thought I would study medicine, like Sherlock, but I loathe the anatomy professor.  He's boring, boring, boring."

"Think it over," Mycroft says.  "You must be very proud, George.  Molly received perfect marks.  Even in astronomy, and we all know how she feels about that subject."

“Deleted it,” Molly mumbles.

"Oh."  George blinks, as if he is surprised to be included in the conversation regarding his daughter's education.  "Right.  Yes, of course."

Molly looks too hopeful, perking up and needing just the hint of praise.

"Anatomy is a worthy field of study," George continues.  "You'll go far."

Molly makes herself small again.

"Chemistry is no less worthy, surely," says Mycroft, turning his nose up slightly at Molly's father.  Although he is more subtle and political about it than Sherlock, Mycroft resents George Hooper just as thoroughly.

“Of course, of course.  Well, I really should be going," George says, abruptly.

"But, there's still dessert," Molly says, desperately.  "I made pecan pie.  I know it's your favorite.  Well, Sherlock mostly made it but I directed and I'm sure it is delicious.  Right, Sherlock?"

"It's perfect," Sherlock agrees.

"No, no."  George rises from his seat and finishes off his port.  "Couldn't possibly eat another bit.  Thank you for dinner.  Happy Christmas."

And then he's gone.

At his side, Molly is defeated and disheartened.

"I am sure there are parents in the world somewhere that are not such a constant disappointment to their children," Mycroft muses.  "But we three have yet to meet them."

Molly stares down at her lap and Sherlock leans over, taking her face between his hands.  "You, Miss Molly Hooper, are brilliant," he murmurs.  "I love you and there is nothing you could do to change that."

Molly smiles and kisses him back until Mycroft's "ah hem" interrupts.

"I, for one, am dying to taste this perfect pecan pie," he says.  "Now, if you two could please refrain from spoiling my appetite further, let's bring it out."

* * *

Late in the night, Sherlock wakes alone. It is a rare occurrence.  At school, he spends the majority of his nights with Molly in her room.  His roommate often jokes about Sherlock's absence, calling him a ghost.  Since their return home for holiday, Molly's stayed with Sherlock as her father neither notices or cares.

But now he is alone.

The sheets beside him are warm and there is a faint glow coming from his balcony, like the end of a cigarette flaring bright on the inhale.

He locates slippers and a hooded sweatshirt before joining her.  She says nothing as he slides onto the bench at the side, but silently hands him the spliff.

"You know I prefer cigarettes to marijuana," he says before inhaling deeply.  Smoke burns his throat and he holds it in his lungs for as long as he’s able before releasing a great puff into the cold night air.

"I hate cigarettes," she says.  "I hate the way you taste when you smoke cigarettes."

"Yes, yes.  I've quit."

"Would you like me to list your 'secret' hiding places?"

"No need to show off."

She frowns and takes the spliff.  "At school I often get a accused of showing off."

"Molly, I didn't mean—“

"I know.  It's all right, Sherlock.  And it's all right that you hate my father."

"Hate may be too strong a description."

Molly snorts. 

They silently pass and puff the spliff until it's gone. Molly pulls the sleeves of hideous jumper number three – the one with Father Christmas on the front – over her hands.

"Caring is not an advantage," she whispers.

"Of course it is," Sherlock says, hating his brother a bit for putting that in her head when they were still children.  It was meant to ease Molly's woes when the other children mocked her, but now the mantra seems dangerous.

"If I didn't care about my father than it wouldn't matter," she says.  "The way he is shouldn't matter."

He wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss into her temple.  Molly turns, offering her mouth.  He kisses her until the cold has Molly shaking.  He carries her to bed, continuing to kiss her newly exposed skin as he peels layers of clothes from her tiny, perfect body. 

He settles with his mouth between her legs and Molly is shaking again, Sherlock's doing now rather than the cold.

* * *

Between Christmas and spring, he sees her only once when she takes over the lab to x-ray a camera phone. The whole thing is undeniably odd and despite Sherlock’s many questions, he learns little.

He wonders if she grieves still, if she loved the faceless woman, and occasionally gets a glimpse of her bright wardrobe in the lab, always fleeing just before he can speak with her. When he pulls out a cadaver for her to examine, she is mostly silent and professional, allowing John and Mary to hold up the conversation.

And he misses her. Reading John’s blog is not substitute for Molly recounting a case in colorful language and general annoyance with everyone involved.

On a strangely hot day in the beginning of June, Sherlock returns home to find Molly sprawled out on his couch, asleep. To combat the heat she’s discarded her bomber jacket and jumper, leaving her only in a camisole and tight back trousers. Her feet are bare and she is face down in a pillow, a knapsack sitting at her side.

Sherlock stares at her for a moment to ensure that she’s breathing before he goes to wash the morgue off him.

He has nearly finished preparing supper when Molly stirs, yawns, and stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She pulls herself up onto a counter, crossing her legs beneath her.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, nodding at her luggage.

“No,” she replies, pulling the tie from her hair and combing out her locks with her fingers. “Returning.”

“Big case?”

“Jetlag,” she says through another yawn. “Any chance that you’re preparing enough for two?”

Sherlock grins as he dishes out two plates, hoping that they can now return to a bit of normalcy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monica did the betaing!


	5. The Hounds of Baskerville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drugs, mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you are so lovely for reading this and recing and subscribing.
> 
> Betaed by Monica!

Sherlock steps through the door of his flat after a long shift at Bart’s. His back aches from leaning over cadaver after cadaver, and he wants nothing more than take-away, a shower, and a book, something far removed from reality that takes very little brain power to rip through.

Instead Toby greets him at the door, rubbing up against his leg and regarding him with big green eyes.

“Hello,” Sherlock says, bending to pick up the cat. He purrs immediately. “Molly!” he calls out.

“Kitchen!”

She is sipping tea with Doctor John, sitting atop his counter and wearing the red bomber jacket over hideous jumper number five, the one with the cherries.

The sight of Molly in his home became normal once more after the death of The Woman. In the year since _the_ _incident_ , they’ve once more settled into the easy friendship they shared before.

Although she makes frequent use of the key she still has on her ring, this is the first time she’s brought John Watson along on one of her little visits.

“Oh, this is your place, Sherlock,” says John. “That’s a relief.”

“Who did you think lived here?” he asks, scratching Toby’s chin, much to the cat’s delight.

“Dunno. Molly said it was her cat sitter. And that’s always going to be amazing. That cat still hisses whenever I walk by,” says John.

“Toby loves Sherlock,” Molly says. “As Sherlock raised Toby whilst I was in rehab. He was a kitten at the time. Very small.”

John clears his throat. “Ah.”

“So what’s going on?” Sherlock asks.

Molly slips off the counter and hands Sherlock her half-empty mug. “Case,” she says.

“Where are you off to?”

“The country, somewhere with moors for something involving a monstrous, genetically mutated hound. All and all, not an ideal location for a house cat.”

Sherlock snorts. “Of course.”

“I suggested we have Mrs. Hudson come feed him,” says John.

“She’s not our housekeeper,” says Molly.

“And Toby hates Mrs. Hudson as he hates most people,” John finishes. “So I hope this isn’t too much of a bother.”

Toby is still cradled like an infant to Sherlock’s chest and he smiles down at the creature fondly.

“Look at them, John,” says Molly gesturing wildly and bouncing in place. “Do either of them look bothered? I’m sure Sherlock would prefer I leave Toby here on a permanent basis. And here I thought your observational skills were improving.”

John lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“How long will you be gone then?” asks Sherlock.

“Should be back as soon as I solve the case,” says Molly. “Shouldn’t be more than a day or two.”

“Only a day or two for a giant, genetically mutated hound?” asks Sherlock, sipping at Molly’s tepid tea.

“I’m rather good at this. Haven’t you heard? Come now, John. Off we go.”

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to come with?"  He zips his best suit - navy blue, three pieces, from Mycroft - into a bag, pressed up against his tuxedo.  He'll need both for the coming five days. 

He turns to look at Molly.  She sits in the exact center of their bed, legs crossed beneath her, tapping her chin.

"Molly," he repeats.

She is deep within her Mind Palace and Sherlock gives up trying the reach her, choosing instead to complete his packing.  Although he has no particular desire to go away to London for Mummy and her symphony and her birthday, she insisted. 

It will be a parade of dull conversation and pretentious gatherings. 

Mycroft will fit right in. 

The whole thing would be made bearable by Molly's presence at his side.  Her scathing commentary would be hilarious, but Mummy would inevitably become embarrassed and then Molly would feel bad, so all-in-all her decision to stay home is probably for the best.

But he will miss her so.

He's finished with his luggage and in the kitchen, preparing a snack for the train when Molly emerges.

"Sherlock?"

"Kitchen!"

She shuffles in a moment later, wrapping her arms around his waist and slipping her hands under his t-shirt.

"You didn't get me a pen."

"You didn’t ask for a pen."

Molly starts to sway, bringing him along with her.  Her thumb brushes his nipple while her other hand trails down his stomach to the clasp of his trousers.  Removing her hands would be the prudent course of action as he has a train to catch, but instead he continues to sway with Molly.  She is warm at his back, sweet and initiating contact (usually she leaves it to him) and he'll recount this moment frequently over the next few lonely days.

“I think I should punish you,” she says. “For failing to deliver a pen I did not verbally request.”

Sherlock turns to face her and rolls his eyes. “I’ve a train to catch.”

“That’s not until this afternoon.”

He nods towards the clock and Molly’s face falls.

“Oh, well _shit_ ,” she says.

“When I get back?”

She flashes him a sweet, small smile. “Yes, all right.”

“I’ll miss you,” says Sherlock.

“I’ll walk you to the train.”

* * *

"And my, how you've grown, Sherlock!  Last I saw you I could rest my chin atop your head but now I'll have a crick in my neck just from looking up at you!  So tall.  So handsome."

His cheeks ache under the strain of false smiles as he is passed around from one friend of his mother's to the next.  All of London seems to have come out to celebrate Mummy's 60th birthday and he plays the role of dutiful son well, even with his face hurting and his tie choking him.  He wonders what Molly is up to, if she's deep in her Mind Palace occasionally calling out to him, getting irritated by his silence until she remembers where he's gone.

"What are you up to these days, dear?" asks the old biddy, whose name he's already forgotten.

"Finishing up my anatomy degree," he replies.

"Oh, how charming.  A doctor."

"I'm studying to be a pathologist, actually."  He's found that he much prefers to work without the pressure of patients yammering at him.

"Ah.  Yes.  Lovely, lovely."  She clears her throat and drinks more wine.  "What about a girlfriend?  I have a delightful niece, beautiful and witty, and most importantly, single."

"I've got a girlfriend, thank you," says Sherlock.  Snaps, more like, and he feels a pang of guilt as the old woman recoils.

He wonders what Molly would observe about her. Alcoholic. Desperate to hold on to her youth.

"Here," he says, gentler and soothing now.  From his wallet he pulls a photo of Molly.  She's in hideous jumper number one – the jarringly bright rainbow number – her head pillowed on his shoulder.  Her smile is shy and Sherlock looks down at her adoringly.  "That's my Molly."

"Ah, what a treasure.  So in love.  Although surely that jumper is a joke?  It is rather... loud."

Sherlock just laughs.

After the party he calls Molly, but the phone rings and rings.  He is not overly concerned as she is worse with talking on the phone than she is at making prolonged eye contact but it is a disappointment. 

It would be lovely to hear her voice.

* * *

In preparation for these moments when Molly drops off Toby with no warning, Sherlock has supplies: an empty litter box, food, and a variety of toys all stored in a cupboard.

Unfortunately, he appears to be out litter to actually fill the box.

So, after John and Molly depart for the country, somewhere with moors, Sherlock is forced to lock Toby in the loo with the hopes that the cat will be able to hold it and off he goes to the store.

“Pardon me. Sir. Do you have a moment to help me something rather odd?” There is a very small woman before him. She wears a bright pink dress with a large floral print, making her look like something out of the 1950s. He long blond hair is tied up in a high ponytail and she is saying very strange things.

“Ah, yes. I suppose I do have a moment.”

She leads him to a display of guinea pigs and pulls a polaroid from her bag.

“Now, which one of these little creatures looks as close to the one in this photo? I need it near identical, as primary school children are much more observant than you’d think. I was thinking perhaps that one there, or maybe one of those two? Sorry, I’ve just been standing here for nearly an hour, wracked with indecision and I’m in need of an outside opinion.”

As she rambles on, Sherlock blinks down at her. When she finally pauses to take a breath she looks up at him, staring at his lips and blushing slightly.

“So,” he says, pulling his attention from the small woman to the prospective pets. “You need to replace the classroom guinea pig with one nearly identical so the children remain unaware that the previous pet has died?”

“Wow, that’s exactly right! You figured all that out, just from what I said?”

Sherlock smirks. If she is impressed with his observation of the obvious, she’d really be shocked if she ever happened upon Mycroft, or god forbid, Molly.

“I take it you’re a teacher?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. Tomara Kane,” she says extending a hand. “Tomi. Friends call me Tomi. And you may as well.”

She blushes once more and the color is pretty on her.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replies, taking her hand. “My friends simply call me Sherlock.”

“Ah. Lovely. And what do you do?”

“I work at a hospital,” he replies, unwilling to scare off this bright, bubbly woman with talk of dead bodies. “And that one there is your best bet. He’s even got a speck of white under his chin.”

Sherlock leaves the shop with litter and Tomara Kane’s number.

* * *

"I do wish you would take a later train, Sherlock."  Over breakfast the morning following the symphony’s performance, Mummy is pouting.

"I've got class tomorrow." He sips his coffee, much more pleasant than the strong acid Molly brews.  "And I need to go over my notes.  Plus, Molly's been alone for five days.  I shudder to think on the state of our kitchen."

Mycroft chuckles without looking up from his sausages. 

"How _is_ Molly?" asks Mummy.

"Fine," replies Sherlock.  "Still doing research with Dr. Thomas, but I think she's getting bored with chemistry.  Last month she was paid five thousand pounds for proving that some local politician was dirty.  The whole thing was amazing but I'm hoping she can stick with it to get her degree.  She's got less than a year and then she can solve whatever mystery she likes."

"That sounds dangerous, Sherlock."

"Molly can handle herself," Mycroft says.  "I've seen to that."

Sherlock gives his brother a grateful nod.

"And why is she not here with us?" asks Mummy.

Sherlock frowns over her tone and wonders where this conversation is heading.

"You know Mo," he says, chuckling.  It's a strange sound.  The result of his sudden nerves.  "She's not one for parties or concerts."

"Yes, she's never quite learned how to conduct herself in most social settings," says Mummy.  "You'd think she'd outgrow her awkward, abrupt manner at some point.  Especially now that she's nearly completed university and sharing a flat with a live in."

Sherlock and Mycroft share a look.

"I wouldn't want her to change, Mummy."

"So you are still rather devoted to her, then?"

Sherlock blinks.  "Of course."  She's Molly.  He loves her, has loved her in one way or another since he was ten years old. 

"Sherlock, dear, understand that as you grow relationships change.  I know you will start up your medical training next year, but you need to start considering what you truly want from life now that you have reached adulthood.  Molly may never be one for parties and in all likelihood she would have embarrassed us all if she were here this weekend.  Is that something you can live with?  For the rest of your days?"

"Yes, Mummy," he says.  "I have considered all this.  And I love Molly.  She does not embarrass me."

"And what about children?"

"Molly would be an excellent mother."  They have never made any such plans for the future and Sherlock is not sure how he feels about children himself.

"And what if she passes her... affliction on to my grandchildren?"

“Mummy!” Mycroft admonishes. “She has no affliction.”

"If Molly and I decide to have children, I would be thrilled if they inherited their mother's gifts.  She's brilliant, Mummy.  I always thought you recognized that."

"Sherlock—“

"Excuse me."  He gets to his feet.  "I really must pack.  Wouldn't want to miss my train."

* * *

“Hello?” Voice hoarse with sleep, Sherlock blindly answers his phone simply to stop it ringing. The hour is unreasonably late and he is not entirely convinced that this isn’t a dream.

“I saw it.”

“Molly?” He sits up in bed. Immediately alert. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

“I saw it too,” she repeats. “Just like Henry.”

“Who the hell is Henry?”

“Client,” she says. “And I saw a hound out there in the hallow. A gigantic hound.”

“A hound? Truly. I thought you were joking about that.”

“Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true,” she whispers.

“Well, now you sound like Mycroft,” says Sherlock. He sits up and turns on a light. “Are you alright, Mo? There is something not normal about your voice. And you hate phone calls.”

“My hands are shaking. I’m afraid, Sherlock.”

He swallows. “Of what?”

“I’ve always been able to… keep myself distant.”

“Not always, Molly,” he reminds her. “Not always.”

“Fine. Not always, but now. I’m now very good at divorcing myself from _feelings_.” She says the word as if personally offended. “But my hands are shaking, body’s betraying me. Interesting, isn’t it? _Emotions_. Grit on the lens. Fly in the ointment.” The words are spoken like she is on the verge of breaking out into song.

“Molly?” he whispers, fearing the worst. “Where’s John? Is John there with you?”

“He told me that I’m worked up, that I’ve been a bit worked up lately. But there’s nothing wrong with me, Sherlock. John just won’t leave me alone! Bloody wanker. I think he’s quite cross. Good. I’m cross too.”

“Are you on drugs?” he asks, already reasonably certain of the answer. There is dread and sickness coiling in his stomach. His fist tightens in the fabric of his sheets. If only Molly told him exactly where she was off to. He’d already be on his way.

“Of course I’m not on drugs!” she shouts. “Really, Sherlock, how could you possibly ask me… that?”

“Molly?”

“Hush, I’m thinking.”

“Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

“Sherlock, you are an absolute genius. Drugs! Drugs, of course. The game, darling, is on!”

And then the line goes dead. He blinks at his mobile for a few seconds before calling Mycroft.

“What’s she done now?” says his brother in lieu of greeting.

“I’m… not entirely sure.” He progresses to recount every detail of his conversation with Molly.

“She’s poking around Baskerville,” says Mycroft.

“Baskerville,” says Sherlock.

“A military installation.”

“Why is she… No. Never mind. I’d rather not know.”

“I believe Detective Inspector Morstan is in the area, or close enough to it. Just returning from holiday with that deplorable husband of hers,” he says.

“You have an opinion on Mary’s husband?”

“I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to check in on our wayward girl. She is acquainted with the High Molly, after all.”

Sherlock doesn’t sleep well.

The following day Molly neglects to answer her phone. The occasional text from Mary or John is not enough to ease his fears.

Two days later, John calls. “It was a drug,” he says. “In the gas, nothing she took purposefully. I got a dose too, as well as Morstan.  We're all fine now.”

“Good.” Breathing is once more possible. There is no longer a crippling weight on his shoulders and a sickness in his gut.

He sleeps through the night.

* * *

"Molly?"  The kitchen is the predictable mess, full of laboratory equipment and half finished experiments.  "Are you here?"

He is met with silence only and a quick search of the flat proves that Molly is out.  Sighing, he unpacks, throwing together a load for the wash.  He'll save that task for later as the mess in the kitchen is far more pressing. 

Molly typically labels her experiments that need saving so Sherlock will spare them when he goes on his cleaning binges, but there is no typical notes declaring _DO NOT TOUCH THIS SHERLOCK!  I MEAN IT.  NO SEX FOR A WEEK IF YOU DISPOSE OF THESE CULTURES._

He misses the familiar looping of her handwriting as he properly disposes of anything remotely hazardous and decides Molly is overdue for another lecture on cleanliness standards.  She would be promptly sacked if she left Dr. Thomas' laboratory in such a state, and she will use the same practices here in their home at the very least.

With the last of the beakers scrubbed, dried, and returned to their proper place, Sherlock goes over the course work he missed while in London.  He glances at the door, his watch, the phone, waiting for Molly.  It is not rare for her to disappear, but surely her disinterest in welcoming him home is indicative of how much she missed him. 

Occasionally he'll get a glance at some other couple, see the way other girls are sweet and doting, and he'll doubt.  As shameful as it is, there are moments where he feels that they are not equally matched. 

Sherlock is so completely in love with Molly, but she can't be bothered to remember when he arrives home.

He has moments of doubt but then Molly includes him in some experiment or shares some fascinating fact.  This is how Molly shows her affections; including him.  She is not cautious around Sherlock like she is around most people.  She is not worried she'll say the wrong thing and with him, she is herself without reservation.  This is far more important than welcoming him home after only five days. Molly's never been good with time.

His eyes drift shut and he stretches himself out on the sofa, planning to simply doze until Molly returns.  Instead the sound of the door finally slamming open rouses him from a deep slumber and vivid dreams.  He sits up, bleary eyed and confused.  "Molly?"

"Sherlock!"  She is loud and delighted. 

Sitting up, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and tries to determine why Molly sounds so strange.

Before he can reply or get his bearings, Molly is in his lap, legs on either side of his, hands in his hair.

"Mo—“ She swallows the later part of her name as she attacks his mouth.  She is rough and sloppy but he enjoys her anyway.  This enthusiastic greeting evaporates his doubt.  Molly missed him.  Of course she did.  Time is simply not her area.

"Molly," he says, laughing as she places rapid-fire pecks all over his face while he attempts to speak with her.  He gathers her long hair, noting that it could really use a wash as he holds it back to properly see her face.

“You’re back early,” Molly says, bouncing slightly in his lap. “Don’t leave again. I don’t like it when you leave.”

Sherlock frowns, tracing his thumbs over the dark bags under her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide. “I’m not back early. It’s Sunday night.” He glances at the clock. “Monday morning, now.”

“Monday morning,” Molly says, laughing and leaning so far back she nearly spills out of his lap and onto the floor.

“Molly?” he asks, concerned. “Are you high? What did you take?”

Marijuana mellows her out. This is certainly not Mellow Molly.

“High on you, perhaps.” She hugs him close, her lips at his neck.

Sherlock glances up noticing the shocked man loitering just inside their front door.

“Molly? Care to explain the presence of this strange fellow in our home?” he asks as she continues to nibble and lick and suck at his neck.

“Oh, yes.” She sits up suddenly, turning to stare at the man in question. “That’s William.”

“It’s Charles, actually.”

“He gave me the cocaine,” she says as it should all be rather obvious.

“Cocaine?”

“It’s an experiment, Sherlock. Don’t get fussy.”

“Fussy!” sputters Sherlock.

“William is harmless,” Molly continues.

“Charles!” shrieks Charles.

“He’s outrageously wealthy. Look at his jeans. Purposefully destroyed denim, selling at an outrageous premium. And his trainers are brand new, the latest style. But this expensive, purposefully grungy wardrobe is not the result of drug money as evidenced by his hair cut, standard for upper class males, nearly all the boys at our school wore their hair this way, save for you, darling. I love your curls.” Her hands are in his hair and there is wonder in her eyes as she marvels over the dark mop.

“Molly!” he snaps. “Focus.”

“Met him on campus. He tells himself that he sells his drugs to meet young women, a means to seduce them, but he is really rebelling against the demands of his family. Although, he did come here with the expectation of sex.”

“Why?” Sherlock demands.

Molly shrugs. “I told him I needed him for an experiment. He took experiment to be an innuendo when it very obviously meant science.”

“What were you going to do to him?”

“Can’t for the life of me recall,” she replies, once more thoroughly distracted by his hair.

“You may go. William,” says Sherlock.

“It’s Charles.”

“And do forget this address. If you ever sell Molly narcotics again, I will allow her to experiment on you. Either that, or beat you up. I assure you, either way there is the possibility of severe bodily harm. Do not let her small stature lull you into a false sense of security. She is deadly,” says Sherlock, trying not to groan as her teeth once more find his neck.

And William/Charles flees.

“Molly,” he says, catching her face between his hands and attempting to hold her still. She fidgets and pouts. “What were you thinking? Cocaine? You never expressed any interest in hard drugs.”

“Seized an opportunity to experiment.”

“What was the objective of this experiment?” he asks.

Molly smirks and leans forward to kiss him briefly. He allows it, kisses her back, but does not release her face between his hands. “Do you have any idea what it’s like in my mind?”

“A palace?” he guesses.

Molly cackles again. “It’s buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. I notice everything. I notice too much, all of it, all at once, and it gets filed and stored or deleted. Like when you pluck, pluck, pluck at your violin. That’s what the thoughts feel like.”

He doesn’t understand how Molly’s mind works. He knows she is remarkable, knows that she can get focused to an obscene degree, knows that she can withdraw completely from reality to wander through her the vast storage of her head that Sherlock dubbed her Mind Palace when they were thirteen. And he might know Molly better than anyone but he will never comprehend what it truly means to be in her brilliant, complicated mind.

“And then you touch me,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss him again. He struggles to keep his eyes open and on her as he tastes her tongue. “The plucking gets quicker, more focused. And then you kiss me.” When her lips find his again, his eyes flicker shut. “The plucking gets quicker and then you fuck me and the individual little plucks all merge together until I’m vibrating at the perfect frequency, until my mind is humming and blissfully blank. And then after I slow way down and for long hours I'm shut off. I’m at peace, darling. You do that for me.”

Sherlock is stunned. He is an utter fool for all those doubts because he makes her vibrate at the perfect frequency.

“And you wanted to see if anything else would have a similar effect on your mind,” he says.

“Very good, Sherlock!” She giggles and smirks, swaying above him. His hands move from her face to her shoulders to steady her. “Quite the deduction. How observant of you.”

“And what are the results of this experiment?”

“Not the same,” she replies. “It’s good. Not as good as you, but good. This… peppermint.”

“Peppermint?”

“When you have a peppermint on your tongue and then you drink frigid water? You know the feeling? And then you breathe, your sinuses prickle with ice. It’s like that, but everywhere, but in my brain most of all,” she says, closing her eyes and pulling his hands up to her head.

“You’re awfully chatty when high,” he says.

“You should try it.”

“No thank you. And I’d really rather you refrain from trying it or anything else in the future.”

“So frumpy, my Sherlock.”

She kisses him again, slower this time and much more thoroughly. When she pulls on the hem of his t-shirt, he lifts his arms.

“We shouldn’t,” he says.

“We absolutely should,” she replies from the vicinity of his collarbone.

“You’re high,” he points out, making no move to stop her as she unfastens his trousers. His head falls back as he groans.

“I am a consenting adult,” she says as she finds him hard. “Who regularly consents to you. Now fuck me, Sherlock.”

He doesn’t have it in him to refuse her.

* * *

After a few hours of sleep it is time for school. His classes begin an hour before hers, but Molly usually walks with him to campus full of chipper observations to counteract Sherlock’s early morning moodiness. She seems to require half the sleep Sherlock does, but it’s impossible to rouse her this morning.

“Bugger off!” she yells when he tries, tossing a pillow in his face and covering her head with the comforter. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. And shut the blinds!”

“So, I’ll just tell Professor Thomas that you’re sick, then?” he asks.

“Don’t care,” she mumbles. “Just stop talking. Wanker.”

“I love you too, Mo.”

* * *

She has take away waiting for him when he gets home in the evening. He takes it for the unspoken apology it is and kisses her temple as she hands him a plate. They don’t speak much as it is rather obvious that she is still recovering from her _experiment._

When she silently hands over his violin he plays something soft, and before long Molly is dozing on the couch. She wakes when he lifts her and insists on walking to their bedroom herself, brushing her teeth and changing into her bright orange pajamas. They settle in bed, facing each other.

“Please don’t do that again,” he murmurs in the dark. “It scared me. You scared me.”

“Okay, Sherlock. I won’t do it again.”


	6. Reichenbach

“Sherlock!”

“Hello,” he replies, popping the collar on his coat and trying to exit Bart’s as Molly and John enter. “I was just heading out.”

“No,” Molly says, linking her arm through his and using all that hidden strength to turn him around. “You’re not.”

He walks beside her for a few paces, back towards the lab, while Doctor John trails behind.

“I’ve got a lunch date,” he says, thinking of poor Tomi whom he will undoubtedly stand up at the café.

“Cancel it. I’ll feed you.” She lets go of his arm to pull two bags of crisps from the depths of hideous jumper number five, the one with the cherries. “I need your help.”

“You always need my help.”

“No one likes hyperbole, Sherlock. It’s about one of your ex-boyfriends.”

“I don’t have any ex-boyfriends,” he says. “Just a whole slew of ex-girlfriends, all due to your influence and damn _deducting_.”

“Just saving you the time,” she says. “They were all boring, boring, boring. Or idiots.”

“Can we focus, please?” asks John, sighing.

“Yes!” says Molly as they reach the entrance of the lab. “Sherlock, we need your help tracking him down. He’s been a bit naughty.”

“Who? The ex-boyfriend I do not have?”

“Is it Jim Moriarty?” asks John.

Molly pauses with the door to the lab open. “Yes, of course it is Jim Moriarty.”

“We got lunch three times. And then he tried to blow up John,” says Sherlock, suddenly deeply uneasy.

Since Molly took the stand at Moriarty’s trial and he was found not guilty, Sherlock’s been plagued by dread, by a sense that _something wicked this way comes_. He wants Molly nowhere near this seemingly all-powerful force of destruction, but he has no say over the matter.

“And then he tried to steal the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England, and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at _lunch_ , Sherlock.” She waves around the crisp and slips into the lab.

“For the sake of law and order,” says John, rolling his eyes. “She wants you to stop going on lunch dates for the sake of law and order. Right.”

Sherlock smirks for a moment before texting Tomi his apologies and getting to work.

* * *

 

It is a kidnapping case and Sherlock ignores his unease as he helps Molly identify what was on the bottom of the kidnapper’s shoe.   Her presence at his side is a comfort, until he notices something not quite right with the consulting detective.

Her posture is off.

She’s making herself small.

“What did you mean, I.O.U?” he asks, sneaking a glance at Molly while pretending to carry on with his work. “You said I.O.U. You were muttering it while you were working.”

“Nothing. Mental note.” She gets even smaller, her eyes glued to her favorite microscope.

“You look like your father,” he observes. Molly is always telling him to observe.

She jerks a little, but does not look up. “Please don’t feel the need to make conversation, Sherlock. And we both know I look more like my mother.”

“When George was dying, he was so cheerful. You remember. He was lovely, except when he thought no one could see him,” Sherlock murmurs.

Although she still isn’t looking at him, he knows that she is totally focused on his words.

“I saw him at it,” he continues. “When you left the room. He was so sad. Heartbroken, even, and frightened.”

“Sherlock.” There is warning in her tone, a request that he stop immediately because when she thinks of her father it is difficult not to be the girl who cared too much.

“You look sad,” Sherlock says, watching her intently. “When you think he can’t see you.”

Molly glances at John where he sits reading at the back of the laboratory and then she is finally looking at Sherlock, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds before dropping her gaze.

But she keeps returning to his eyes.

“You are not all right, Molly,” he continues. “And don’t say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

“You can see me,” she murmurs.

Sherlock smiles ruefully. “I don’t count.”

And he doesn’t.

Even after their breakup and Molly’s attempt to turn off all feeling, she’s never quite learned to hide around Sherlock, like she does around other people. It’s a habit more than anything, her comfort around him, a relic of their past.

“If there is anything I can do,” he continues, “anything you need, anything at all, you have me.”

A faint color tints her cheeks and she looks at her hands in her lap. “But what could I need from you? Other then mortuary access, I mean.”

She sounds genuinely confused by his suggestion and it feels a bit like losing her all over again.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head and trying to fight his grimace. “Although a thank you could very well be in order.” He did cancel his lunch date, after all.

There really isn’t anything he wouldn’t cancel at Molly’s request.

She squints at him. “Thank you?”

The words sound so unnatural coming from her in this moment, Sherlock would laugh if he weren’t so frightened. He needs a moment alone, but letting her out of his sight feels wrong as well.

In the end he presses a kiss to her cheek on his way out of the lab. “I’m just going to get some crisps,” he says, despite his lack of appetite. “Do you want anything? No, I know you don’t.”

“Well, actually, maybe I—“

“I know you don’t.” Outside the lab, he leans against a wall and slides to the floor, fisting his hands in his hair.

* * *

 

“Sherlock! Someone’s at the door! The knocking is disturbing my thinking!”

Molly shrieks from the other room as Sherlock attempts to unpack their truly ludicrous collection of books.   Walls of bookshelves were a must when they were searching to make the move to London. It made rent a bit pricier but Sherlock can easily afford it and if he tells Molly to pay a bit less than half, then she’ll never notice.

Now that university is over, he’s not entirely sure what she’ll end up doing. Mycroft is desperate to hire her, but she seems much more interested in what she calls cases, which vary from missing pets to cheating spouses, dead birds to Carl Powers.

“You could help, you know,” Sherlock says as he emerges from the study and passes Molly in the sitting room, where she’s cleared their couch of boxes to stretch out.

“I’m thinking!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he opens the front door.

Before him stands Dr. George Hooper, wringing his hands. If the queen herself were on his front stoop he would be no more surprised.

“Ah,” says Molly’s father. “Good. I thought perhaps I got the address wrong.”

“No, no,” says Sherlock, shaking his head. “This is the new flat.”

They stare at each other for a few silent moments.

“So, could I come in? Do you think?” asks George, shuffling his feet.

“Yes!” Sherlock jumps and holds the door open, stepping aside to let George pass. “Sorry, so sorry. Do come in. It’s a bit of a mess. Haven’t really had the time to fully unpack. I’ve started training at Bart’s and Molly’s already solved three cases since we moved here.”

“Of course, of course. It is no bother.”

“Mo?” Sherlock calls out when they reach the sitting area to find the couch empty.

“What?” She yells out from the study with its walls of shelves and unpacked books. “I’m helping! Who was at the door?”

“Come see.”

There is a series of loud thuds accompanied by a slew of profanities and Sherlock winces, fretting over damage to both his books and his Molly. She pokes her head out of the doorway, scowling for a moment until she catches sight of her father and beams.

“Hi!” she squeaks, patting at her messy hair and then tugging down her too small shirt as she makes her way over. “Dad! Hi. What… what are you doing here?” She stares at her feet as she waits for an answer.

“Just, thought I’d pop in, see the new place. I probably should have given you more time to get settled in. I can go. Come back in a few weeks?” He glances around the messy flat. “Or perhaps a few months?”

“No, no, no.” Molly shakes her head. “You are welcome anytime, Dad. Anytime at all. Sorry it’s so messy. Sherlock’s been so busy with the hospital he’s barely helped at all with the unpacking.”

Sherlock snorts. “Not accurate.”

“And I may or may not have been avoiding the whole thing in favor of exploring the city.”

“Ah, lovely. Lovely.”

And awkward silence descends once more.

The whole situation is highly suspect. In the past thirteen years since he first met George Hooper, Sherlock has never – not once – seen the man go out of his way to pop in on his daughter. While they were away at boarding school and then at uni, he attended no parent weekends or special events. He did make it to graduation ceremonies, but that was largely Mycroft’s doing.

For George Hooper to appear here suddenly with the simple goal of visiting his daughter, something has to be drastically off.

But Molly, usually so keenly sharp with her deductions and her observations, only smiles at her father as if nothing about the situation is suspicious.

“So, um.” She swings her arms, glancing at Sherlock. It is a flashback to when she was young and without confidence, looking to Sherlock for clues as how to navigate unfamiliar social situations.

For once, Sherlock is at an equal loss for what to say and do.

“Tea!” The word bursts out of him with too much volume, making both Hoopers jump. He clears his throat. “Would anyone fancy a cuppa?”

Both Hoopers nod.

* * *

 

George takes them to dinner and he is a new man, delightful and engaging. He asks questions, gets Molly talking about her cases and her interests. There is wine and laughter. Molly is as happy as he’s ever seen her, for this is her deepest and longest-lasting desire.

Sherlock says very little. He simply drinks his wine, eats his meal, and observes.

Not for the first time, he wishes he were more like his brother. Both he and Molly have super powered brains, and although Mycroft does not have trouble with socializing like Molly, they both seem nearly mind-readers with the accuracy of their observations.

Sherlock wishes he could learn to be like that, as now is the perfect time to use said superpower on George Hooper.

For the man is being perfectly lovely with his daughter and Sherlock would like to know why.

Preferably before Molly gets hurt.

* * *

 

He pulls on his coat and turns off the lights in the lab, thoughts revolving around Molly. She’s made no contact since figuring out the location of the kidnapped children. Perhaps he had it wrong and this feeling of dread comes from nowhere, save his own constant worry over Molly’s well being.

But then he recalls how small she made herself as she sat at her favorite microscope, a place where she is supremely self confident in her every action.

“You were wrong, you know.”

The voice stops him just as he gets to the exit but he is not surprised to hear it. With all his internal organs sinking to the floor, Sherlock knows he was right.

Something here is very wrong.

He turns to look at her.

“You do count,” she whispers. “How could you think that you don’t count? Of course you count. You always have.”

He smiles slightly as it becomes clear that Molly misunderstood him. When he claimed not to count, he simply meant that she is at ease around him without being conscious of it. There was no instinct to hide her sadness. As complicated as it might be between them, he knows Molly cares for him in her own way. He knows he counts.

She’s sitting on the floor with her knees pulled to her chin, her back to the wall, staring blankly ahead. The sight makes his chest hurt and he crosses the lab slowly, moving to stand above her.

“I know,” he says.

“But you were right about the other bit,” she says, looking up at him now. For once she manages prolonged eye contact and for once he wishes she would look away. Her expression is unfathomable and fear seems to close up his throat again. “I’m not okay.”

Rather than make it worse, her confirmation of his deepest fear soothes him. She’s admitted it. That means she’ll let him help.

He offers her a hand up and she manages to stand on shaky legs. Before him, she wipes silent tears from her cheeks. More replace the ones she’s dried.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

“Sherlock.” She takes a deep breath and fists her hands in her hair. “Sherlock, I think I’m going to die.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a shuddering breath.

“What do you need?” he asks.

She looks at him again, and her smile is the single most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen. “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?”

The reemergence of Molly’s self doubt, after all this time, after all the people she’s helped, is alarming.

“Molly,” he says, taking her face between hands and forcing her to look at him. “You are _more_ than you think you are. I know that better than anyone. What do you need?”

“You.”

He chuckles, the sound without humor.

“Well, that you have,” he murmurs. “That you’ve always had.”

When he bends to kiss her cheek it’s meant to be a gesture of comfort, of support, but Molly turns her head at the last moment, fully capturing his mouth. Sherlock groans and stumbles. It takes him several seconds too long to get his wits about him and kiss her back.

Against his mouth he feels her panic.

“Show me,” she says between searing, jarring, _painful_ kisses. With hands on the lapels of his coat, she pulls him back towards a wall. He goes willingly, noting in somewhat of a daze that she is kicking off her shoes. Her back hits the wall and she lets him go for a moment to strip off her tight black trousers with efficiency.

As she stands, Sherlock uses her upward momentum to lift her, to push her against the wall of the lab as she wraps her legs around his waist.

She grabs his hair, pulling his mouth back to her as he fumbles with his belt buckle.

“You count,” she says against his lips, breath harsh and voice quite. “You count. Sherlock, show me. Show me I count, too.”

“Molly, I—“

“ _Show me_.”

Her teeth sink into his bottom lip and he sinks into her and it hurts, but the pain is of the emotional sort. It is too pervasive for even the intensity of this pleasure to diminish.

He presses a hand to her chest but can feel no heartbeat through her thick jumper. The way she clings to him and her sharp little intakes of breath that match the pace he sets are insufficient evidence to convince him that she lives, so he wrestles her out of her jumper. Sherlock groans when his palm is warmed by her skin and her heartbeat flying in her chest.

“Show me,” Molly demands, whimpering when Sherlock moves again.

Molly truly thinks she is going to die and he’ll do everything to keep that from happening, but he’s terrified that this will be it. The last of Molly.

He is scared and this hurts.

“I love you,” he manages as pounds her into the wall.

In response Molly cries out, fingers tightening in his hair. Her forehead rests against his and her cheeks are wet with tears but the look on her face, the eye contact, keeps him from stopping until they both shatter.

Against his chest, he feels her calm. Holding her up is near impossible as he finds himself suddenly without bones, but when Sherlock attempts to move away, Molly’s arms tighten around his neck.

“Just one moment more,” she whispers. “Please, Sherlock. Just hold me for one moment more.”

He breathes her in and steels his resolve to help her. To keep her alive.

When the strain of holding her up has him shaking, Molly unwinds her legs from behind his back. Her feet find the floor and she bends to collect her clothes as he fixes his trousers. They are both fully clothed again and Molly brushes nothing from his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she says, pushing her face into his chest. Tears soak through his shirt. “I… I got in over my head and now… I don’t know what’s to happen and you could get hurt. You could get hurt, Sherlock.”

“I won’t. And you won’t either, if you’ll just let me help you.”

She lifts her face, giving him a watery smile. He kisses her quietly, thoroughly, in a way that was not possible before with all their tension and fear. The sex may have served to calm them both, but it is through this kiss that Sherlock makes sure Molly understands the depth of his affections and just how much she counts.

“You are not in over your head,” he insists, shaking her shoulders slightly. Despite having no knowledge of the specifics, he is certain of this. “You are the most capable person I’ve ever known and no matter how dire it might seem at the moment, you can handle it.”

“But he knows I care, Sherlock! About John. Mrs. Hudson. Morstan. He might find out about you too! What if—“

“You care more,” he says, cradling her jaw. “You care about us and because you do, you’ll win. He doesn’t understand the depth of your ability to care. It’s your strength, Molly. You’ll keep us safe because you care. And I’ll help you.”

She narrows her eyes, not quite believing him. “Kiss me once more?”

He kisses her nose and then her temple. Molly lets out the smallest giggle and Sherlock finds her lips.

When he finishes with a final kiss on the corner of her mouth, Molly sighs and very nearly smiles.

“Now,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ears. “What do you need?”

Molly takes a breath and steps away, flicking on the lights. Sherlock slips out of his coat, folding it over the back of a chair.

“Okay,” says Molly straightening her shoulders and looking far more determined. “Let’s get to it.”

* * *

 

“It’s not normal, Mycroft.” Over his lunch break Sherlock smokes a cigarette and yells into his mobile. “He’s been here four days. Molly’s sought out no cases and is instead occupying her time taking him around the city. They spent two full days in the British Museum. Yesterday at dinner there was talk of him getting a flat nearby. A flat! Near by! Does that sound anything remotely similar to the George Hooper we both know and do not love?”

“It is odd,” replies his brother. “I’ll give you that.”

“And even worse, Molly absolutely refuses to observe anything in regards to her father. There has not been a single deduction even though they are plainly there, beyond my ability to see.”

“You always were the slow one.”

Sherlock startles a cluster of pigeons as he paces around the delivery entrance to Bart’s. He smokes too fast.

“When I suggested something might be not quite right here, she pitched a fit and forced me to spend an entire night on the sofa. Alone.”

Mycroft laughs and Sherlock’s frustration grows.

“Surely it’s not the first time.”

“It is. It is the first time.”

“Have you considered just allowing Molly to enjoy it while it lasts? She finally has a father, it would seem.”

Sherlock scowls, paces, and smokes. “I’m more concerned with the fallout when he goes back to being a cold, uninterested git.”

“You’ve never been the controlling type,” muses Mycroft. “And good thing too as there is no stopping Molly from coming and going as she pleases.”

“I’m not being controlling!”

“Well, you sound controlling. And envious. Either of the time Molly is now devoting to her father or the fact that she has a parent taking a interest when Mummy has yet to even ask you how things are at the hospital.”

Sherlock finishes his cigarette and deeply regrets that he only kept one for an emergency. He’ll have to buy another pack but perhaps Molly will be too wrapped up with her father to notice.

“Couldn’t you turn some of that deductive prowess on George?”

“Afraid not, brother-mine. Terribly busy at the moment. Not even in the country, as it were.”

His head falling back to his the brick exterior of the hospital, Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh. “I am genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. The fact that she isn’t a least bit suspicious of his motives will make it all the worse when she finds out what’s really going on.”

For a long moment, Mycroft is silent.

“I suppose I could look into things.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

The news Mycroft and all his government resources unearths is far from encouraging.

Brain tumors. Malignant. Fatal. Three months left, and that’s being optimistic.

He tries to tell Molly but she won’t believe him, despite all the evidence right in front of her: Mycroft’s findings, George’s change in personality, his bizarre decision to give up his previously much-loved life in the quiet country for the bustle of the city.

“He would have told me!” Molly shrieks. “Why are you so determined to ruin it? He would have told me, Sherlock!”

And then she storms from the flat. This time it is Molly who takes the couch, but Sherlock is still unable to sleep without her.

* * *

 

For a long month, Sherlock and Molly are strangers, passing only briefly when they both happen to be in the flat. She takes to sleeping days to avoid him at night and on days he has off, she flees to her father’s new flat, only four blocks away.

No apologies, no pleading with her to see reason, no romantic gestures will thaw her icy demeanor, and Sherlock fluctuates between rage and despair several times an hour.

When she appears in the lab at Bart’s, drowning in a black jumper and eyes brimming with tears, Sherlock almost thinks he dreamed her up.

“Molly?”

She says nothing and Sherlock glances about, still too new to the training program to feel comfortable smuggling in his girlfriend to restricted areas.

“You really can’t be here.”

Still, she says nothing. With a great sigh, Sherlock washes his hands and leads her out of the lab to the thankfully deserted employee lounge. By the time he gets a good look at her, the tears have escaped her eyes and flow freely down her cheeks.

“Oh, Molly,” he murmurs, wrapping her up in his arms.

She sobs into his shirt, chanting, “I’m sorry,” between hiccups and sniffles.

“Hush,” he says, rocking her. “Hush.”

Eventually she calms and manages to blink up at him. When Sherlock attempts to step back, Molly keeps her arms around him.

“I’m so sorry. You were right. Of course you were right. It was all right there.”

“I forgive you,” he replies, stroking her hair. “It’s always been difficult with your father. What’s happened?”

“He collapsed. Had to bring him here. He’s not going to leave ever again,” she whispers.

“Is that what the doctors say?”

Molly snorts. “No. They are far too diplomatic for all that, but it’s obvious from just looking at them. He’ll be dead before the end of the month.”

“I’m so sorry, Molly.”

“I just… I didn’t want to see. Fucking _sentiment.”_

“It’s all right. He’s your father. You are allowed to care.”

She wrenches from his grip. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock! I let myself think that he finally, finally wanted me but it was all the tumors. You should see where they are. Changed his whole personality. None of it was real. Not one moment and I would have seen it if I wasn’t so consumed by my own embarrassingly weak need for something from him!”

This is the moment he’s been dreading but there is no satisfaction in being right.

“I think you are wrong,” Sherlock replies.

“I’m not wrong!” she squeaks at him, incensed.

“You are. He’s always loved you, always wanted a relationship with you, but he just didn’t know how. The tumors made it easier to express. That’s all.” This is the only reasonable explanation for George’s historical indifference. For someone to be uninterested in the brilliance that is Molly is unfathomable to Sherlock.

And Molly isn’t exactly good at social interaction. She’s learned, mimicking the behavior of Sherlock and Mycroft, but perhaps George had no one to teach him.

Sherlock, despite his typical pessimism regarding humanity in general, decides to believe this. For Molly’s sake.

She gives him a wan smile.

“What now, Mo? What happens now?”

Molly shrugs. “We wait for him to die.”

* * *

 

After finishing the painful task of falsifying her autopsy and ducking past swarms of press, he arrives home to find Molly in his empty claw foot tub, smoking from his emergency pack.  Her hands shake so badly it is a struggle to bring the cigarette to her lips. 

In the several hours since he ushered her out the back of Bart's, delivering her to a waiting car courtesy of Mycroft, she's raided his closet, discarding her bloodied clothes for Sherlock's purple button up, his favorite scarf, and a hooded sweatshirt from uni that he was unaware he still owned.

"Molly."

She jerks violently, gaze swinging to him in the doorway for a moment before she goes back to staring straight ahead at nothing.

Her lip is split and her eye is bruised, but considering what the rest of the world now believes became of Molly Hooper, she is remarkably unscathed.

Sherlock struggles against his own volatile emotions – fear for Molly, for the people she allows herself to care for now; rage, at Mycroft, at fucking Jim from IT; deep heartbreak – because Molly needs him steady and sure. 

He climbs into the deep tub, sitting sideways as she does.  His legs do not find sufficient room and he drapes them awkwardly over the side, ignoring the discomfort.

"John?" she croaks out.

"Alive."

"Yes, but is he all right?"

“Physically, yes.”

“But—“

"Not now, Molly.  You don't need to think on it now."

She nods and does not move away when he reaches up to rub the back of her neck.

"Ms. Hudson?  Morstan?"

"Alive," he replies.

Molly nods again.  She smokes the rest of the cigarette and then blinks at the bud as if she's forgotten the next step in the process.  After a moment of silent consideration, she hands it to Sherlock.  He runs it under a bit of water and disposes of it in the wastebasket.

"I'm keeping these clothes," she announces after several long moments of silence.

"Of course."

She then bursts into tears and allows Sherlock to gather her up in his arms.  He turns them in the tub so that they can stretch out length ways.  Powerless and hopeless, he can do nothing but hold her as she soaks through his shirt.  He strokes her hair and kisses her temple and lets his heart break with her.

Eventually she dries her self out, her sobs changing to sniffles.  Sherlock's calf falls asleep and he loses track of time, but he does not move, not daring to disturb her and risk sending her into hysterics once more.

Molly is hiccupping into his neck, shaking hands curled into his shirt, when Mycroft arrives.  His brother has aged decades in the last day and Sherlock is almost overcome by the need to bash his face in, to make him hurt the way he hurt Molly.

In an attempt to get information out of Jim Moriarty, Mycroft handed over Molly’s life story. That information was released to the public in a newspaper article Sherlock refuses to read that claims Molly’s perpetuated every crime she’s ever solved in an elaborate scheme to make herself look clever. There is enough truth in it – thanks to bloody Mycroft – that the lies become believable.

Long ago the Holmes brothers entered a tacit agreement to protect this most special and most important of girls, and Mycroft failed so spectacularly.  It is beyond Sherlock's ability to understand.

Sherlock can do nothing but glare as his brother shuffles into the bathroom and sits on the closed lid of the toilet.

"I'm so sorry."  Mycroft mutters into his hands.  "So sorry."

It's disorienting to see his always-steady brother completely undone.  When he removes his hands there is a single tear streaming down his cheek. It is nothing Sherlock’s previously seen. 

Mycroft’s open display of emotion cools Sherlock’s violent rage into something more manageable.  He will have it out with Mycroft, for this betrayal is unforgivable, but not now. 

Not with Molly so raw.

The bathroom falls silent.  Occasionally Molly sniffs or Sherlock adjusts his legs or Mycroft reaches for his umbrella that is missing from his side for once.

"We must go," Mycroft says.

"Where?" asks Sherlock.

"Mummy’s. The estate.  You and I are retiring there to grieve."

"For how long?"

The brothers glance at Molly, still curled onto Sherlock's chest.  She stares blankly at nothing and appears unaware of the conversation going on around her.  Although the shaking has subsided for the most part, Molly is in no condition to go underground to dismantle Jim from IT's criminal web and eliminate the remaining snipers.

"As long as she needs," Mycroft murmurs.  "As long as she needs."

* * *

 

Molly helps him throw together a bag.  Only the leggings she wears now are her own, and Sherlock wonders what of the clothing she pulls from his closet is for her rather than him. 

It is late into the night when they leave his flat but he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over her head, carefully concealing her hair, as a precaution. Just before departing Molly sprints to the library, returning with his violin.

"Toby," she says. 

Mycroft argues for a full seven seconds before giving in.  Sherlock recognizes his easy agreement for what it is.

Penance. 

Mycroft is at the wheel of the car, something that has not occurred since Sherlock was at uni, and he dutifully drives them to Baker Street. 

It is up to Sherlock to retrieve the cat, and he uses his key to let himself in.  The grief and exhaustion he feels is no act and will be enough to convince Mrs. Hudson or John that he is utterly devastated and that Molly is utterly dead but 221b is empty, save for the cat in question.  He considers grabbing Molly some clothes, but the good doctor will be looking for any sign Molly lives and even missing undergarments would be considered evidence.

Instead he scrawls a note to John, explaining the he's taken Toby and will gladly keep him for the future.  He hesitates for a moment before jotting down his mobile number.  Sharing the doctor's grief is not appealing and he feels no guilt over his deception, for the lie will protect Molly, but she would want Sherlock to be there for those she cares about. 

Perhaps if he is lucky, John will not call.

Toby is wholly uncooperative and he yowls as Sherlock wraps him in a blanket.  Locking the flat with a wriggling mass of fur in his arms is another trial, but the moment he once more slides into the backseat, Toby calms.  He mewls at Molly, soft and needy.  She pulls him into her lap and then leans into Sherlock's side.

Mycroft drives them home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely (and speedy) Monica. 
> 
> Thanks so very much for reading.


	7. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly stops caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for this...

"Molly asleep?" Mycroft asks, lifting his head from the papers as Sherlock enters the kitchen the following morning.

"Yes."  He helps himself to coffee.  "The longer the better.  Who knows how long she was going without."

"So you've decided against the silent treatment, I see.  Very adult of you."

The anger is constant just beneath his skin, and at Mycroft’s statement, it turns violent once more. 

"You deserve much worse, _brother mine._ " He spits out the words, hands tightening on his mug.

"I am well aware," says Mycroft.  Once more his shoulders droop, and Sherlock looks at his brother, unkempt and clothed in sweatpants of all things.  Sherlock was under the impression that Mycroft slept in his suits, as he abandoned such casual attire before Molly moved to the village.  "There is nothing you could possible say that will make me anymore aware of the extent to which I've failed her.  And you, also."

Not once have they discussed this, but Mycroft is more parent figure to Molly than her drunk mother and distant father.  The same can be said for Sherlock and although nothing compelled the elder Holmes to fill that role, he gave up much to see that the pair of them had some guidance in this world.

It makes his failure worse, somehow.

"All I can do now is use my resources to assist Molly in the work to come and to ensure that you are able to stay at Bart's, if that is your wish," Mycroft says, turning back to the paper. “Have you read this drivel? What kind of publication would hire such a subpar writer? And Kitty is an absurd name.”

“I’m not reading it. Why would I read it?”

“You are not in it, you know,” says Mycroft, casually turning a page.

“Molly said you’d given him her life story,” he says, suddenly offended.

“I may have failed to protect her, but the same cannot be said about you. Moriarty was barely aware you exist. To hear me tell it, you and Molly were merely acquaintances and though you might have desired something _more_ , Molly was uninterested,” says Mycroft.

It’s not that far off, really.

Sherlock doesn’t have it in him to feel relief or gratitude.

* * *

 

Molly does not speak for two days. She barely leaves Sherlock’s bed, but he does manage to get some soup and grilled cheese in her, pretending that the meal is his and allowing her to steal it off his plate.

Mycroft goes back to London, promising to return when Molly is ready to take on the next, dangerous part of her plan.

When Sherlock isn’t laboring in the kitchen, crafting familiar food that has the highest chance of getting her to take a few bites, he joins her in bed. She silently pushes books into his chest and he reads out loud as Molly’s fingers pet either Toby or his hair, whatever is readily available. His hands ache with all the violin playing she requires from him. Sometimes she clings to him and cries and cries.

In the night she frantically strips him of all clothing as he does the same for her. She needs him as he needs her and for a few blissful moments, they both forget.

* * *

 

They essentially live at the hospital for several weeks.

George is lovely, funny and charming despite the pain. He smiles at Molly and asks her questions. She answers with gusto until she seems to remember that he has tumors and then she shuts down again, excusing herself.

When she leaves Sherlock can see the weight of past mistakes clearly in George’s expression.

He tries to tell Molly, but nothing can make her believe that George has regrets.

“It’s the tumors,” she says. “The tumors are interested. The tumors care for me. That’s all.”

When he finally passes, Sherlock is both relived that George feels pain no more and terrified for Molly.

At the funeral, Molly appears to spend the majority of the time battling her tears. Sherlock would rather her cry and rage and grieve, but instead by the end she appears utterly without emotion.

* * *

 

She does not request he lie with his head in her lap so she can stroke his hair while she thinks.

She disappears for days on end and although this is far from unusual, she does not regale him with her adventures or really speak to him at all upon her return.

She eats little and when she is home she spends the majority of the time locked away in the study, reading, looking for cases, ignoring him completely when all he wants to do is help her through this difficult time.

She does not sleep, or more accurately she does not sleep with Sherlock. Occasionally, she’ll wake him in the night with her mouth and hands. She is rough but quiet and he finds himself chasing her lips, wanting nothing more than to kiss her.

She doesn’t let him.

* * *

 

When Sherlock left for a jog around the estate – the house feels like a prison – Molly was asleep, but when he returns, red-faced from the combination of cold and exercise, she's sitting on the balcony off his room.

He pauses two floors below her, hands on his hips as he catches his breath.  Molly leans over the railing to peer down at him.  Between her fingers a cigarette smolders.

"Filthy habit," he shouts up at her.

She cracks a smile, takes a drag, and blows out a smoke ring.  "Couldn't agree more.  But I've already smoked my way through all Mycroft's good cigars. Took me four tries to crack his safe. Unacceptable."

"Anyone could see you out there, you know," he says.

"No one ever comes.  And I'd see them before they got close enough to see me."

Sherlock frowns.

Molly makes a show off pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head.  "Better?"

"A bit."

"Come up here.  I missed you.  Waking up alone is not overly pleasant."

He takes the stairs two at a time and winds his way through hallways and his bedroom until he is taking the seat next to Molly.  He reaches for the cigarette, greedy for it, but Molly is quicker.  She puts it out.

"Come on, Mo," he groans.

She silently hands him a nicotine patch.

"You're going to have to start wearing these yourself if you're not careful," he mutters as he secures the patch to his arm.

"You are angry.  With Mycroft, I mean.  Of course the whole situation makes you angry.  It makes me angry too, but you are specifically angry with your brother."  Molly looks him in the eyes, frowning slightly and cocking her head to the side as she studies him.  "Why?"

He blinks at her.  "Isn't it obvious?"

It only takes her a few more seconds of studying him before she understands.  She scoffs and looks out over the estate.

"Really, Sherlock.  You are so _dense_."

"Rude, Mo.  That's rude.”

"You truly think Mycroft went off on his own, sharing my life story with Moriarty without consulting me?" she asks, rolling her eyes and clearly annoyed by his lacking intelligence.

"Um."  Sherlock clears his throat.  "When you put it that way it does sound rather absurd."

"Of course it’s absurd.  We thought it might come to this, my name dragged through the mud although I was so hoping to avoid the whole dying situation, fake or otherwise."

Sherlock lets out his breath, deflating under a new awareness of his own foolishness.

"We were very deliberate with what we shared.  Did you read the article?" she asks.

"I would never."

"Well if you did you would notice that everything in there is superficial.  Detailed in the extreme, but superficial.  There was much we did not agree on, your brother and I, but keeping you the most deep of secrets was priority number one," she says, frowning at her hands in her lap.  "Moriarty bought it, as evidenced by who he chose to set guns on.  Ridiculous, that you were not included in that but also critical to our plan.  Even more critical was your safety.  On that we agreed."

Sherlock sighs, not thrilled with the way the pair of them insists on treating him like a vulnerable, incapable child.  True, he's not wanted much to do with Molly and her dangerous cases outside the lab, but he does not need to be protected to such a degree, especially if protecting him somehow harms Molly.

"Don't pout," Molly says.  "Your brother adores you."

Sherlock snorts.

"He does.  And... And I.  Well.  You know."

He frowns at her.  "I truly do not know."

"You're Sherlock," she says, shrugging. 

It explains nothing, really, but he still understands what she's grown so uncomfortable feeling since her father's death.  He places an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to rest again his chest.  When he presses his lips to her temple, Molly sighs.

"Forgive your brother," Molly says.  "He did what he did with my full knowledge and consent.  He feels bad enough that he couldn’t figure out an alternative solution without you scowling at him all the time."

"Fine.  If you insist."

"I bloody insist, Sherlock."

He grins for a moment before he realizes that Molly is recovering.  Molly is coming back to herself and that means Molly will soon leave.

It doesn't bear thinking of.

* * *

 

A week after the fall and Sherlock is at the stove preparing supper – macaroni cheese, another childhood favorite – when she wanders downstairs, yawning widely, Toby held in her arms like an infant.  Once again she's drowning in Sherlock's old clothes, worn drawstring pajama pants and a button up with an old dressing gown to top it off, hem dragging over wooden floors.

He glances at his watch, pleased to see that she slept for sixteen hours and twenty-six minutes. This is the first time she’s made it downstairs since the fall.

"Where's Mummy?" she asks, sliding onto a stool at the counter, eyes landing on everything but Sherlock.

"France, I believe."

"She didn't want to fly home?  After... After she heard, she decided not to come home."

Sherlock serves himself a bowl, moving with his meal to take the seat beside Molly, knowing full well that she will in all likelihood not eat off her own plate, but she'll steal from Sherlock's without thought.

"She doesn't know, Molly."  He smirks when she steals his fork, leaning in to capture strings of cheese with her tongue. "Mycroft has neglected to tell her, as have I, and your celebrity does not extend internationally."

"Good," she says, mouth full.  "Good. When she finds out you should tell her the truth."

Molly eats the whole bowl of pasta. Sherlock is dishing out more.  His goal for the next few days is to feed her as much as possible, knowing full well that sooner rather than later she will be too far away, beyond his reach.

Mycroft emerges from the study, dressed immaculately, and requests a serving.  He arrived sometime in the morning, when Sherlock was too preoccupied with making Molly moan to notice.

Molly makes no comment on Mycroft’s weight and the fat content of their meal.

They sit in a row at the counter, Molly and Sherlock sharing, Mycroft with food of his own.  It could be so many summer evenings from their youth, home from school, Mummy away, and Dr. Hooper uninterested. 

Back then Molly belonged only to him.  There were no others to save.

For long moments of comfortable silence, Sherlock can almost let himself believe that it's all so simple.

And then Molly speaks.

"You should tell them."

"Tell who what, my dear?" asks Mycroft.

"Ms. Hudson.  Morstan.  John.  You should tell them.  After I leave."

"No," Sherlock says.

Both Molly and Mycroft stare at him, surprised.  He is not one to interfere in such things.  In the lab, in his mortuary, he is in charge, but when it comes to the ridiculously dangerous, senselessly complicated, completely commendable life Molly's build for herself since getting sober, he typically stays passive.

"What?  No?  Why no?" Molly demands, arms crossed over her chest, macaroni cheese abandoned.

"No, Molly.  You stay dead.  Not only will it keep them safe from the bloody assassins your Jim from IT put on them, but, far more importantly, it will keep _you_ safe.  You are about to attempt to demolish the network of a psychopathic criminal with the resources to strap bombs on people to give you riddles, who killed Carl Powers when we were sixteen without anyone noticing, who forced you to jump from the roof of my hospital and me to falsify autopsy reports.  To do this, you must be dead.   No one can know, Molly.  Just us."

"I concur," says Mycroft, as if it clears up the matter.

"They won't tell anyone, Sherlock!  You're being illogical."

"No."  He stands, knocking over the stool.  Molly jumps in her seat but does not wither under his glare.  She even manages to hold his gaze for a few seconds.  "You are being illogical.  Their grief is leaving you blind.  Right now you aren't the consulting detective. You are the girl who cared too much, and you will not tell them."

She pulls her knees to her chin, staring intently at the remains of Sherlock's dinner, and he is thoroughly sickened by his own words.

He loved the girl who cared too much, fiercely, with everything he was, and she loved him.  He loves the consulting detective also, although the experience is marked by pain and loneliness and the constant fear that this will be the case to do her in.  The true Molly Hooper is somewhere in between the cold creature she strives to be and the naïve youth she once was, but his harsh speech made it sound as if the girl who cares is without worth, repulsive, vile.

But he will take no chances with her safety, not after everything.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” he says when she crawls into bed with him sometime later.

“Don’t be. You are right.”

“Caring is not a bad thing,” he murmurs as Molly lies down at his side, flat on her back and staring intently at the ceiling.

She sighs. “So you always say.”

“I love you, Mo.”

She sniffs and finds Sherlock’s hand under the blanket, lacing their fingers together.

“How could he not have seen how much you matter to me?” she whispers.

“Who?”

“Moriarty. How could he miss something so huge? So obvious? He didn’t know me at all, not like he thought he did. Believed that I was always like this, as unfeeling as him.”

“I’m glad.”

“As am I. I don’t…   You’ve kept me alive, Sherlock. And not just last week. Will you come with me? I know I shouldn’t ask and you’ve already given up so much, risked so much, but will you come with me?” She continues to stare at the ceiling but she squeezes his hand with a good portion of her strength and her nerves are palpable.

He honestly has done all he can to avoid thinking of the horrible moment of Molly’s departure, and this was a possibility he did not consider. Still, he has his answer ready.

“Yes.”

Her delighted chortle makes it hard to believe that anything could ruin this happiness for either of them. Molly’s kisses are sloppy due to the scale of her grin.

* * *

 

“I cannot do this any longer.”

Molly flips on the lights in the study but doesn’t seem overly surprised to see Sherlock seated in an easy chair, waiting for her in the dark.

“Do what exactly, Sherlock?” She strips off her leather jacket, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. She pulls her long, lank hair back into a ponytail and doesn’t look at Sherlock.

“Live like this. It’s been months, Molly. You’re a ghost. I’m concerned.”

“Don’t be,” she says, tapping her chin as she studies the shelves of books. She selects a title and thumbs through it, but her eyes don’t move over the page. Despite her apparent indifference, she is listening.

“Molly, please just talk to me.   I know everything with your father was terrible but—“

“Don’t.”

She sounds like a robot.

“Molly.”

“I said _do_ _not_ , Sherlock. I have no patience for your pathetic attempts at conversation. It’s all so dull.”

He blinks at her, stunned by her cruelty and then choosing to ignore it.

“I feel like you’re not even here, Mo.”

“I’m standing right in front of you. It’s not my fault you, in all your lacking mental capacity, have now decided to distrust your own eyes.”

Sherlock gapes at her, at a total lost. Molly’s always had difficulty with tact, but she’s never been purposefully malicious.

He is losing Molly, she is losing herself, and he hasn’t the faintest idea how to make it _stop_.

She snaps the book closed and returns it to the shelf before marching over to him and dropping to her knees. He watches her with utter confusion as she digs around in his trouser pockets, emerging with a lighter.

Pulling a tin from her own pocket, Molly retreats to the opposite end of the room to sit on the floor and lean back against a wall. She lights a spliff, inhaling deeply.

“Really, Molly.”

“None of your concern,” she says, talking around the smoke she holds in her lungs.

“It is!” he insists. “It is my concern. You’ve not been okay, Molly, and I’m your boyfriend. Your wellbeing is my concern because I care about you.”

“Caring is not an advantage.”

“Stop saying that!” He is yelling now, fingers digging into the arms of the chair. “Mycroft told you that when you were a child in a misguided attempt to make the teasing of our peers less horrible. It wasn’t meant to be a life philosophy!”

She blows smoke rings and Sherlock growls in frustration, tugging on his hair.

“And you’re not,” she says, a moment later.

“Not what?”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” she says as if it should be wholly obvious.

And perhaps, after these last months, it should be. Sherlock feels ill.

“Come now,” she says, smirking. “Surely even you, with all the air between your ears where your mind should be, had to have noticed that you have not been my boyfriend for some time.”

He swallows. “Why, Molly?”

“Caring is not an advantage,” she says again. This is quickly becoming his least favorite series of words in the English language. “So I will not be doing it any longer.”

“Caring? Your plan is to just stop caring? Molly, that makes very little sense. You can’t just… turn it off!”

“Do not tell me what my mind is capable of!” She leans forward, scowling and angry. “I can turn it off. I already turned it off. Why am I even surprised you have not noticed? You may not like it, Sherlock, but it’s happened and you are no longer my boyfriend. I am no longer the type to do boyfriends or any sort of partner. The sex is merely chemical, pleasant yes, but certainly not anything I can’t live without. Just as I can live without you.”

“Molly, I—“

“I’m done. I’m not the weak little girl you thought you loved. Find someone else to take care of. Your preoccupation with me is as tragic as it is embarrassing.”

Sherlock flees.

* * *

 

There is no Molly at his side when he wakes. Already, in the week or so since they fled London he’s gotten used to seeing her face the first thing upon opening his eyes.

Her absence leaves him deeply uneasy and after dressing hastily, Sherlock searches.

He nearly plows over Molly, entering the kitchen just as she attempts to exit.  With hands on her shoulders he smiles down at her but the morning greeting he plans to deliver dies on his tongue as he gets a good look.

Sometime in the few nighttime hours since Molly's emotional request that he join her in leaving England, she's changed her hair. 

Frowning, he fingers the ends, missing those long locks already.  She's dyed it nearly black and the lanky strands now only reach the tops of her ears.  If her hair was curly, it would mimic Sherlock's own cut.

It is not just her hair that is reminiscent of his own style.  She wears fitted black slacks, a white button up, black coat with the collar popped, and a blue scarf knotted at her throat.

He rubs the fabric of the scarf between his thumb and forefinger.  Not just like his scarf, but his actual scarf.

"What's all this?" he asks.

Molly takes two big steps away from him.  Compared to the closeness of the night previous, both emotional and otherwise, the space between them now is disconcerting.  His stomach drops because he's lived through Molly withdrawing before.  He can't believe he was fool enough to believe she wouldn't do it again.

"Molly," he whispers when she does nothing but stare.

"I can't be Molly anymore," she says, blinking down at her attire.

"So you've decided to become me?" He tries to stick his hands in the pockets of his coat, realizing too late that he still wears only a soft old t-shirt, not even a dressing gown.  There are no available pockets.  "Does this mean I should become you, then?"

His lame attempt at humor falls flat.

"You will stay Sherlock Holmes," she murmurs, staring intently at the floor.  "You will take Toby, go back to your life with your friends and your job."  She glances up, eyes searching his face for a moment before dropping once more to the floor.  "You'll stay the same.  Just as you should."

"But, Mo, last night—"

"I was out of my head," she says, voice rising and echoing in the kitchen.  "Scared.  Sad.  You cannot go with me.  I should never have asked."

"But you did!" In the few moments since he last attempted it, he's not sprouted any pockets and his hands knock against his legs.  "You asked because you need me there, want me there."

"I don't need you," she says, slowly backing away.  "Not for this.  I need you here.  Safe."

"I'm coming with. You asked me.  It's all settled."

"You are staying here.” She stomps her foot once.  “I cannot be responsible for keeping you alive!"

"Oh, as if I am not capable of doing that myself."

"You're not!" she shouts, glaring up at him again.

Sherlock closes the space between them, looming over her in a way that is too threatening, but this time Molly makes no retreat.

“I won't let you do this alone!"  Despite recognizing the futility of it all, he argues.  It verges on pleading even and he cannot say why he doesn't give up gracefully.  The moment she stepped away from him before, dressed up the way she is, Sherlock knew she'd changed her mind but if he lets her go he'll never see her again in all likelihood, and that is unbearable.

In reply Molly rapidly shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. He captures her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. She appears so young. No one should be expected to take on what she will and certainly not alone.

“I’m with you,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking her cheeks. “Together we are better, Molly. I’m coming with you.”

For a few moments she really looks at him, eyes wide and unguarded. For a few moments she really listens.

Until she transforms before him once more into the cold, calculating detective.

“No!” Molly smacks away his hands and shoves his chest, making him take a step backwards. “No! No! No!”

“Molly, just—“

"No." Molly is calm again, detached as she was immediately following his father's funeral.  "You will be no help, Sherlock, but an unspeakably annoying burden. You serve no purpose and being alone is much more preferable when the alternative is you following me about like a lost, love-sick puppy. I do not want you, Sherlock.  How is it, even after all these years, that you are unclear on this fact?"

It is an excellent question, one that he ponders constantly when Molly disappears with Mycroft, without another word of goodbye.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know! What a place to leave it.
> 
> Also, I am off to Spain and Morocco for the next couple weeks so it's going to be awhile between updates. Although a good chunk of the next chapter is written so hopefully the wait won't be too terrible.
> 
> You are so lovely for reading.  
> And Monica is so lovely for being the best of all betas.


	8. The Empty Hearse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because she remains his best friend, despite everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monica is a magnificent beta.  
> And thank you for reading.

John Watson finds his way to Sherlock's flat on the three-month anniversary of Molly's fall. 

It is just past midnight and unlike his "dead" former counterpart, the good doctor does not slip in silently, instead banging on the front door with a level of violence that Sherlock finds wholly unnecessary.

The noise does not awake Sherlock, for sleep is unthinkable on this day, haunted as he is by Molly's voice when she shared her fear of death and the image of her shaking in his tub and the cruelty of the words she spat at him on the morning of her final departure.

The knocking can be heard even over Sherlock’s mournful violin playing, and he sets the instrument down before letting the good doctor into his home. 

"Hello, John," he says, leading the way to the kitchen.  "You remember where I live."

"Yeah. And she... It's a little blue dot on a map."

"Ah." Sherlock nods towards a stool at the counter and John sits.  "Drink?"

"Do you have whiskey?"

From the smell of him, he's already had plenty of whiskey, but Sherlock dutifully provides a bottle and a glass.  He pours what remains of the bottle of wine he opened earlier in his own glass and leans back against the counter, opposite Molly's dearest friend.

Her very dearest friend.

This fact rankles, even if it was not John she sought out in her darkest moment.  Sherlock remains wary of the doctor and extremely jealous.  Although his sexuality has been firmly established, this doctor – whose limp has returned in the months since Molly's death – was the first person Molly decided to care about in five years, since she went off the rails, since she cleaned up and started living by Mycroft’s words, spoken in an attempt to soothe rather than change her whole personality. 

Caring is not an advantage.

What did the former army doctor provide Molly that Sherlock himself could not?

They drink in silence and Sherlock ponders this question.

Molly and John do both relish the rush of dangerous situations and Sherlock never had much desire to race around London, tracking down villains on foot and confronting them.  He is much happier in his lab. 

Perhaps in the twenty-two months since the doctor first moved in to Baker Street, Sherlock has looked at the whole thing in the wrong way. 

John was good for her.  He reminded her of her long-forgotten humanity.  And despite Sherlock's jealousy, Molly certainly was more open with him, seeking him out for companionship and comfort, since she began her friendship with John.

He looks at the drunken, limping mess that is John Watson without Molly, and he decides that he has not been totally fair.

Anyone who understands the brilliance of Molly Hooper is worthy in Sherlock’s eyes, even if it is all irrelevant now, with her gone.

"She never explained things, you know?  Not properly.  For months she let me believe Mycroft was her brother," slurs John, eyes red rimmed and puffy.

“She certainly enjoys playing the enigma," Sherlock replies, finishing his wine and opening another bottle.

"Enjoys?  Not enjoyed?"

Even pissed, the doctor is perceptive.  A result of living with Molly, no doubt. 

Sherlock needs to be more careful. As angry as he still may be with her, he made a promise to keep her secret, to keep her safe, and he would be unable to live with himself if he fails her now.

"I forget, sometimes.  Far too frequently."  And this isn't a lie.  He still glances up eagerly whenever the door to the mortuary slams open, hopeful that it's her before he remembers that her appearance is impossible.  "And it's horrible, each time I remember."

John squints at him and pours more alcohol into his emptied glass. 

"Until Christmas, I thought you were just someone she met at the hospital, that she badgered into assisting her because how do you say no to those eyes?  Thought maybe Mycroft introduced you.  That you were acquaintances, but I started to wonder at Christmas before we got distracted by the whole Adler debacle."

Sherlock scowls into his wine at the mention of The Woman.

"How long did you know her?"

Sherlock shrugs.  "Little over twenty, twenty-three years. Something like that."

John chokes on his booze, eyes watering.  Sherlock considers patting his back and providing a bit of comfort, but he simply sips his red and watches.

"Twenty? Twenty-three?" John asks, incredulous. 

"We were ten,” Sherlock says, smiling at the memory.  "Birds were dying on the estate and Molly could not bear it. The whole thing was a proper mystery."

"And it was the birds she cared about themselves?  Not the mystery?"

"It was a long time ago," Sherlock replies.  "Back when she cared too much instead of not enough."

"Really?  Molly?  Caring too much?"

Sherlock nods as he is swamped with bitterness.

"Wow.  So you grew up together.  And that's why Mycroft was so... concerned."

“Her father was uninterested. Our mother was absent. When we weren’t off at school, Mycroft essentially raised the pair of us.”

“Mycroft! Mycroft?” John’s eyes are huge and disbelieving.

Sherlock nods.

"She didn't know the earth revolves around the sun."  John is a picture of abject misery.

"I was there when she deleted that."

"You were there for a lot, weren't you?"

"Obviously."

"Will you tell me about her? When she cared too much?"

They talk about Molly for several hours, both men finding themselves smiling genuinely for the first time in three long months.

"I miss her," John confesses as they become melancholy once more.

"As do I.  Nearly every moment."

John falls asleep on Sherlock's couch and they make plans to meet for lunch the following week before he heads home in the morning.

* * *

 

"Oi!  Sherlock!"  From the back of the pub, Victor is beckoning. 

Sherlock nods in acknowledgement of his old friend, and then points to the bar, indicating that he'll get a drink before joining him at the secluded table.

He's been putting this off but Victor's last email, complete with a threat to camp out at Bart's until Sherlock agreed to see him, convinced Sherlock that he could obfuscate no more.

Since parting ways before uni, Victor's stayed in touch through email and the like.  They never seem to be in London at the same time with Victor travelling for his journalism job and Sherlock in the country for holidays, but they typically manage to see one another yearly at the very least, usually meeting for dinner, sometimes joined by Molly.

Sherlock orders his drink and steels himself to talk of the supposedly deceased consulting detective. Between John and his colleagues, Sherlock's gotten quite good at lying on her behalf.  He is unable to hide his lingering anger, but this plays well into the narrative Molly left and the prevailing belief that Molly jumped from the roof of the hospital.

John is angry too.

"Sherlock," says Victor.  There is pity in his expression and Sherlock does his best not to grimace.  His old friend rises, sets Sherlock's beer on the table, and envelops Sherlock in a hug that lasts far too long.

"Victor," says Sherlock when he is released.  He pulls out the chair across from Victor's and sits.  "You are looking well.  Travel suits you."

Every time he sees Victor it is something of a shock.  In his mind, Victor will be eternally seventeen, gangly and awkward, dark skin of his round face marred by acne.  He is a man now, a seasoned journalist with an impressive and somewhat ridiculously dangerous resume, and seeing him grown makes Sherlock feel old.

"Eh," says Victor, shrugging.  "I've done alright, although frankly the last couple years have been exhausting.  It's time to come home."

"Oh really?" asks Sherlock, sipping his beer.  He is not overly fond of beer, but this pub is not the sort of place where one can comfortably order a nice merlot.

"Got a transfer.  Here in London.  My editor is not thrilled, but when I pitched her my idea for my first piece she was sold.  But enough of me, complaining about my career.  How are you?" Victor leans forward a bit, expression pained and sympathetic.

"You know, I've grown to loathe that question."

Victor smiles.  "Yeah? I imagine you get asked that quite a bit."

"It's trailing off now.  People get bored so easily, but I suppose ten months should be enough time to move on.  Really, I'm thrilled that she's finally out of the papers.  No offense, Victor, but some of your fellow journalists are horrible excuses for human beings," Sherlock says.

Victor grimaces and nods.  "We'll get to that in a moment.  But really, Sherlock.  Are you holding on all right?"

"As best as can be expected, I suppose.  Certainly better than Mycroft.  Or John."

"John?"

"Molly's flatmate, crime solving partner."

"Ah.  Right.  She mentioned him."

Sherlock blinks and sets down his nearly gone drink.  "Mentioned him?  You were in contact with her?"

"Of course, mate," says Victor, rolling his eyes.  "She's much better with email than you are.  Or was.  I still do that.  Use the present tense."

"As do I."

For a few depressing moments, they sit drinking in silence.  The quiet stretches until there is nothing left to drink.

"Well," says Victor.  "I think we need to get proper drunk."

"Agreed."

* * *

 

"Let's talk of something happy," Victor says after four beers, three shots, and endless reminiscing of a young, happy Molly.  "Is your love life happy?"

Sherlock snorts into her beer.  "Not particularly.  Although I have agreed to go on a date next week."

"Really!"  Victor waggles his eyebrows and bumps shoulders with Sherlock.  "Do tell.  Does this lovely lady have a name?  I am assuming it is a lady.  You are still singularly preoccupied with ladies, correct?"

"Correct."  Sherlock finishes beer number five.  "Tomara Kane.  We met sometime ago.  Before... Well, I'd forgotten all about her but then just happened to bump into her on my way to work last week.  To be honest, dating sounds horribly unappealing but she's rather pretty and happy.  I could use a bit of optimism these days."

Victor nods, pats Sherlock's shoulder, and orders another round.

"What about you?" Sherlock says, in need of a subject change.  "Still leaving broken hearts across the globe?"

"No, no, my friend.” Victor laughs, easy and free as ever.   “As I settle down in London, so too must I settle down romantically.  Have anyone in mind?"

"I essentially have no friends."

"Come on, mate.  You're holding out on me."

"Well, there's always John."

"Molly's John?"  Victor sputters into his drink.

"Molly's friend, John. My friend now too, I suppose.”

"You want to set me up with the bloke who you've just told me is in a deep dark place?  Who's wartime trauma and psychosomatic limp have returned?  That is who I should be dating?"

Sherlock shrugs.  "Might be good for him."

"And what about me!"

"Might be less good for you," Sherlock admits, thinking hard on his limited acquaintances, any of whom would be lucky to have someone like Victor.  "Mary Morstan?"

"The Detective inspector?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Never mind how I know," Victor says.  His quick dismissal is suspect, but Sherlock is too pissed to care.  "What's she like?"

"Wait.  No.  She's recently reconciled with her husband.  But never fear, they break up quite frequently.  Perhaps you'll get her on the next go round."

"Those are two piss poor suggestions."

"Beggars can't be begging or some whatsits."

Victor laughs and then grimaces.  "I'm sorry I couldn't make the funeral, Sherlock."

For a few blessed moments there, Sherlock was not preoccupied with Molly's location, how Molly's doing, what Molly's doing, and his own simmering anger. 

"I, also, failed to attend the funeral," Sherlock admits, drinking deeply.

"What?  Bollocks."

"It's true.  I couldn't make it."

"What on earth could have been more pressing than Molly, _your_ Molly, her funeral?"

"I found myself a bit unable to muster the strength to leave my bed, as it were."

In truth, Molly was still very much in the country – specifically in Sherlock’s bed – at the time of her funeral. Mycroft attended.

Victor blinks at him a bit and then gives Sherlock another hug. This one is not returned. Sherlock has reached his threshold for tolerating physical expressions of comfort.

"I thought she was doing better," laments Victor as he releases Sherlock once more.  "After those dark years and all the drugs, she seemed to finally find what she was meant to be doing."

Sherlock grunts in reply.

"You are angry," says Victor.  "Why are you angry?  I know the breakup was not your idea, but she was still Molly.  Your best friend.  _Your_ Molly."

"She jumped from the roof of my building," he snaps.  "She left me to do her fucking autopsy.  She killed herself. So yes. I am angry."

Victor, typically so jovial and kind, slowly sets down his glass and glares at Sherlock.  His eyes are narrow and calculating.  Gone is all sense of sorrow and camaraderie.  "Did she?"

The whispered question sobers Sherlock.  He sits up a bit straighter as Victor scoots his chair as close to Sherlock's as possible.

"Did she _what_?" Sherlock spits out, relying on his anger to maintain the lies.

"Come off it, Sherlock," Victor says, talking quietly, no sign of all the alcohol they've consumed apparent in his speech.  "This is Molly.  You know better than I that everything they wrote about her in the papers was a lie.  Her brilliance was no clever manipulation. I believe in Molly Hooper and you must too and there is no way she willingly leapt from that rooftop."

Expelling a huff of air, Sherlock leans heavily against the back of his seat.

"You read Kitty Reilly’s swill," Victor says, excited now.  For the first time, Sherlock sees the journalist, famous for taking risks to get the story in the most dangerous of places.  "This Richard Brook character?  Who somehow knew Molly's life story but didn't feel the need to mention you?  I've looked into him, Sherlock.  He exists only on paper.  And no one came forward to claim the body, no friends.  No family.  I looked into his so-called family.  All dead within the last three years.  There is no Richard Brook, Sherlock."

"Of course there isn't."

"So you believe that James Moriarty set the whole thing up?"

"Of course I do, Victor.  Molly's never faked a thing in her life."

"Exactly!  Anyone who knew Molly, really knew her, has to know that the entire thing is wrong, so wrong."

"What's your point, Victor?  She's dead.  I did the autopsy myself."

Victor takes a deep breath.  "You know how I mentioned my editor being enthusiastic about my first pitch for a local story?"

Sherlock feels a bit like he might be sick.  "Yes."

"It's Molly.  I'm going to clear her name."

"Oh." He runs his hands through his hair.

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am.  No, I am pleased.  This is wonderful.  Needs to be done."  And it does, for the widespread belief of her guilt is part of the reason that she can't come home.  Most days, despite everything, he’d very much like her to come home. "I just... Makes it hard to move on, is all."

Victor's arm is around his shoulders.  "This'll give us all some peace.  I owe Molly that much and I can give her back her legacy.  I can give _you_ back her legacy.  Although I might need your help in the future."

"Done."

* * *

 

"You look absolutely wretched," Mycroft says, staring down his long nose at Sherlock with faint revulsion.

"I'm just tired."  It is no lie.  Sherlock spends nearly all his time at Bart's and when he does stumble back to the flat that he still shares with Molly, he can scarcely sleep without her.  Although her presence in the flat is obvious – mug of old tea left abandoned on the coffee table, piles of books and maps, the occasional discarded jumper or pair of shoes – it is akin to living with a ghost.  She's taken over the study and Sherlock dares not enter, too terrified by the possibilities of what he will find.

Drugs, in all likelihood.

Mycroft sighs and slips into the booth opposite Sherlock. 

"Was it necessary to choose such a dump?" Mycroft ask, even more disgusted by the vinyl seats and plastic covered menus than he is with Sherlock's wretchedness.

"It's close to work," Sherlock replies.  "Their coffee is spot on."

"You look like you've been living on coffee," says Mycroft.

Sherlock shrugs.

"Preferable to Molly perhaps, as she's been living on various narcotics.  But still far from ideal," muses his brother.

"Do you even care, Mycroft?  Molly is killing herself.  Do you even care?"  He's seen Molly a handful of times since she's ditched him and she is thinner each time, the bags beneath her glassy eyes darker.

"I care," says Mycroft.  "Of course I care.  Do you really think I have not done all in my power to make her see sense?  She is an addict, Sherlock, a grieving addict.  Ultimately it is impossible to force help upon someone."

A waitress appears. She flirts with Sherlock, as she always does, although her heart isn't fully in it anymore.  Last week she summoned the courage to leave her number but he did not use it.  She's pretty enough, but Sherlock's never been with anyone but Molly and the thought of doing so now makes him queasy.

Mycroft orders tea and a pastry.  Sherlock wants only coffee but his older brother insists he eat something, so he gets a bagel as well.

"I don't know what to do, Mycroft," Sherlock confesses, scrubbing his hands over his face.  He feels as wretched as he looks.

"You kick her out of the flat," says Mycroft says.  A bit of his brother's unflagging calm diminishes, surprising Sherlock.  "It's your name on the lease.  It's you who pays the majority of the rent although I doubt you've collected anything from Molly since she started spending the money her father left her on drugs."

"Where would she go?" Sherlock asks.

"It is none of your concern."

"How can you even say that!" Sherlock shrieks.

"Because it is the truth, Sherlock!" snaps Mycroft. He slams a fist on the table, making silverware rattle. Those nearest to their table stare and Mycroft looks embarrassed for a moment before composing himself.  The waitress delivers their drinks and Sherlock gives her what he hopes is a comforting smile.

Mycroft stirs a bit of milk into his tea.

"It is no longer your concern, Sherlock.  She wants it that way and it is long past time that you accept that she no longer wishes to be with you."

Sherlock winces and guzzles his coffee, focusing on the burn in his throat.  "We may no longer be romantically linked, but she remains my best friend.  She's family, Mycroft."

"Be that as it may, I really must reiterate that you cannot help her as she has no desire to be helped.  Eventually she will hit rock bottom and we will do what we can when that occurs, but for now all you can do is take care of yourself.  It is not healthy, the way you continue to cohabitate with Molly.  You must do what you can to move on."

Sherlock slumps over in his seat.

"I will find her alternative accommodations, if that's what it takes.  Or if you prefer to move I am sure getting your name off the lease will be easy enough."

Sherlock says nothing and finishes his coffee.

Mycroft sighs.  "Do at least promise to consider a change to your living arrangement."

Sherlock nods.

It takes Mycroft less than five minutes to finish his tea and consume his pastry.  He stands and leaves money on the table but Sherlock lingers, in no rush to return to the morgue as of yet.

"Was your friend alright?" asks the waitress as she refills his drink.  Amanda.  Her name is Amanda and she really is very pretty.

"My brother," Sherlock corrects, "labors under the misconception that because he is the oldest he has the right to boss everyone about."

Amanda laughs, the sound a pleasant tinkle.  "I've got me one of those," she says.

"Dreadful, aren't they?"

"Yes.  Completely dreadful.  But at least they care, you know?"

Sherlock nods.  "A fair point.  Amanda, would you like to get dinner sometime?  Maybe later this week?"

He leaves the cafe with hands made shaky from an excess of caffeine and a date.

* * *

 

“You know what day is coming up,” says John, leaning over the table at Angelo’s. He pushes the candle aside and glances about as if he’s afraid they’ll get caught.

“Of course I know. In five days,” Sherlock replies, pretending to study the menu. This lie is an old hat now and he is so comfortable telling it that sometimes he catches himself believing it might be true. After such moments of doubt he immediately texts Mycroft, demanding an update.

_She lives._

That is all. There is never any detail, any speculation on if and when she’ll come home or how she is. Sherlock imagines she’s very lonely. He tries not to care and certainly does not ask.

“You know she brought me here on our first case,” John says, wistful. “We were on a stakeout for that cabbie who was murdering all those people and making it look like suicides.”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock replies, swirling his glass of wine. “Angelo thought you were on a date and it made you excessively uncomfortable.”

“Right.” John’s ears turn pink as they are wont to do when he is embarrassed. “How’d you know? She told you?”

“She did.”

“I can’t really get over it, how much she told you.”

“Not enough, I’m afraid.”

“No, it never was. I saw Mrs. Hudson last week,” John says, smiling ruefully. “I’ve been a right shit about staying in touch, but after all the media coverage on clearing her name, I couldn’t not pop by. Still couldn’t go in the flat though.”

“How is the old landlady? I should really give her a ring.”

“She’s fine,” John replies, rolling his eyes. “I told her I was moving on, thinking about popping the big question, and she still thinks that Molly and I were a couple. By the end I loudly declared ‘I am not straight’ and she still doesn’t believe me.”

Sherlock snorts into his wine and leans back in his seat. “It would have been quite the whirlwind romance. Let the old woman have her fairy story.”

John winces and Sherlock regrets his word choice.

“It doesn’t feel like two years,” John murmurs. “Can you believe it’s been two years?”

Sherlock shakes his head as the door to the front of the restaurant opens, the bell above it sounding. The petite blonde that enters glances around and positively lights up when she catches sight of him. It is a lovely and welcome change of pace, to be regarded with such utter devotion.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she says, shaking out of her coat and placing it on the back of the chair at Sherlock’s side. “I’m late, I know. Unruly children, conference with the parents went late. The usual drill.”

“You really are rubbish with time, Tomi,” Sherlock replies.

“Well, good evening to you too.” She beams at him once more and kisses him soundly. “There, that is a much more appropriate way to greet the woman you’re to marry. No need to get cranky.”

“Sherlock is always a bit cranky,” John says.

Tomi laughs. “It’s true.”

“And no need to worry,” John says. “Greg got held up with some charting so he’ll be a few minutes yet. We’re just doing drinks.”

“And we’ve got a starter coming,” says Sherlock, waving over Angelo. He is unsurprised when his fiancé orders a glass of white wine with one ice cube.

Angelo does the expected fawning over Tomi. As far as Sherlock is concerned, the commotion in the back of the restaurant that steals Angelo’s attention does not come quick enough.

“So, John’s got an exciting bit of news,” says Sherlock, laying an arm over the back of Tomi’s chair. She flashes him a smile, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. This sort of casual, easy affection is by far the best part of being with Tomi.

“Oh, do tell, John.”

The good doctor’s ears burn red and Sherlock hides his smile in his wine.

“Well, ah, you know, it seems like time to, you know… I really love him, don’t want to ever be without him.”

Tomi frowns and turns to look at Sherlock to clarify.

“He’s proposing.”

“Ah,” says Tomi, turning her mega watt smile on John. “Bravo. You make a lovely couple, just lovely. And I’m sure he’ll say yes, although you really should work on your speech cause the stuttering was sweet, but confusing.”

John chuckles. “I’ll practice. Now can we please discuss something else, anything else, before he pops in and we ruin the whole thing.”

“We could have a double wedding in the spring!” says Tomi.

Both John and Sherlock gape at her but she manages to keep a straight face for a few long moments before she giggles. “Only joking. Still, we’ve got to get busy planning our ceremony or John will beat us to the altar.”

Sherlock would be totally fine with such a scenario playing out. He did not truly want to get engaged, but he could tell after they hit their one-year anniversary that she was expecting it. He wants to want to marry Tomi, light, happy, Tomi with her love of children and her bright floral dresses. Their relationship is simple, something he craves after so many years destabilized by Molly.

He wants to want to marry Tomi, so he proposed, hoping that making it official would speed along the process.

In the mean time, he’s been particularly difficult in all matters of planning. All in all, he cannot say what exactly he’s waiting for.

Greg joins them, flustered and grumbling but John teases him into a better mood. The evening is filled with laughter and smiles.

Sherlock wonders if Molly ever finds the occasion to smile and then hates himself for continuing to care.

* * *

 

He sees her before she sees him.

It’s been an exceedingly long morning, full of tiny, dead children and their tiny, dead organs, the result of a school bus accident. He wonders what he’ll tell Tomi when he sees her for supper tonight and she questions his quiet, sullen, cranky mood. She never can tolerate any mortuary talk and she would surely leave him for good if he offered up tiny dead children as an explanation of his melancholy. She’d rather not know as the morgue is his burden, not hers.

Perhaps it’s best if he cancels.

As he enters the locker room he considers what do to with his lunch hour. There is no way he can eat, but there is an emergency cigarette in his locker. He’ll take it to the park. With a teeth brushing and some mouthwash, Tomi will never know.

Not like Molly. Molly always knew.

Just as he thinks of her he pauses in the entryway, his mind struggling to catch up with what his eyes are seeing.

A very slight person in a red leather jacket is poking about in his locker. Down the center of her back is a long, neat braid. It sways as she rummages and in the mirror that hangs on the back of his locker door, he can see his reflection, gaping there with an open mouth like a total fool.

She straightens and through the mirror they make eye contact.

Molly Hooper’s smile is soft and shy. She wears it in the mirror and she is still wearing it when she turns to face him, alive and in person for the first time in two years.

“Hi,” she says.

It requires an excess of throat clearing for him to manage a coherent sentence. “Hello, Molly.”

At the sound of his voice she grins widely. If Sherlock didn’t know better – and he does, for this time he really, truly learned his lesson – he would think that she might cry.

“John has a mustache,” she declares.

As much as he doesn’t want to, he laughs. Molly joins in and for a few long moments, the sound of their delighted chortling fills the nearly empty locker but when it trails off it is even tenser than it was before.

He is thrilled to see her alive and so relieved he is weak with it. After the last words she spat at him before she disappeared, he desperately wants to remain unaffected by her reappearance.

After a few more beats of silence during which they continue to silently take each other in, Sherlock gives up the game.

In three paces he is across the room, his arms wrapping around her waist. She sinks into him, breathing out her relief as she hides her nose in his neck and returns the embrace. Lifting her off her feet, Sherlock spins her in circles. Her giggles are music and Sherlock allows himself this one moment to feel all the joy of her return with none of the anger or the sorrow.

When he sets her down, Molly smiles. “Glad someone is happy to see me.”

“Of course, Mo. Does that mean John knows?”

“He tackled me, Sherlock! Three separate tacklings getting us kicked out of three separate restaurants,” she says, genuinely offended. “There was quite a bit of yelling. And he’s getting married! What’s he thinking, getting married to some stranger? Although I must say I am rather fond of the fellow. He seemed to fluctuate between bemused and tickled ”

“I’m rather fond of Greg as well.”

“Greg? Who in the bloody hell is Greg?”

“John’s fiancé. I’m assuming he said yes, then?” asks Sherlock.

“No, no. I met him. He was at all three separate restaurants and I liked him and, much more surprisingly, I’m nearly certain he liked me. Lestrade.”

“Yes, Greg Lestrade.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John’s going to be furious with me as well. We’ve gotten quite close, these two years past, and I’ve lied to him, too.”

“Oh, have you?”

“No need to be jealous. I’m sure your doctor will come around,” he replies.

“I’m not so sure. Well,” she says, patting his shoulder twice. “Best be off.”

“Already?” he asks, watching as she moves towards the exit. “That’s it.”

“I’ve got to go see Mrs. Hudson. And Morstan. They’re both likely to hug me. Oh, God. It’s going to be dreadful.”

“So you’re back?” he asks, suddenly scared that he will never see her again, that she’ll once more disappear. This is not right. He should not care, but he isn’t Molly. He can’t turn it off.

She smirks at him over her shoulder. “I’m back.”

* * *

 

The door to the study is open, just a crack. 

Those few centimeters of space might be innocuous under normal circumstances, but in the months since Molly oh so gently pointed out that Sherlock is in fact not her boyfriend, the door to the study has remained firmly closed to him, claimed as Molly's territory. 

He's ventured in there on several occasions to retrieve books when he absolutely had no other choice, but for the most part he's left her space be, despite Mycroft's increasing frustration and insistence that Sherlock and Molly separate physically, as she's forced them to do emotionally. 

Sherlock's hesitation is not from a misguided optimism that she'll change her mind.  Although in those first few weeks he did so hope she would realize the folly in living by the cursed motto _caring is not an advantage,_ but within the last months he's squashed that in himself. 

When Molly commits, she commits and this is how she is now, drugged out, self-absorbed, and totally uncaring.

Perhaps Mycroft is right and Sherlock needs that final break to move on, but as of now he is unwilling to change their arrangement of silent cohabitation.  As long as this flat is still where she keeps all her belongings, he can watch her.  He can assure himself that she is safe and if not healthy then at least alive.

To prove to Mycroft and also himself that he can share a flat with Molly – if it can be called that, he rarely catches a glimpse of her – he took out Amanda the waitress last night.  Even with half a bottle of wine in him, he had the sense to suggest they go back to hers instead when she kissed him and whispered in his ear "take me to yours."  Her voice was breathy and nothing like Molly’s.  She continued to be nothing like Molly throughout the night and now he feels like he lost something. 

Before last night, there was only Molly. 

Now there is Molly and Amanda.

After a sleepless night spent losing something intangible that makes his heart hurt when he thinks on it too long, he returned home to find the door to Molly's territory open just a crack.

He's been unable to do anything but stare for a full five minutes.

This is the source of Mycroft's worry and as Sherlock stares at the crack he realizes – with much irritation – that his older brother is correct in this assessment. 

If he lived alone, Sherlock would be able to crawl into bed and not think of Molly.  As it is, he can do nothing but look at the crack in the door and grieve the loss of Molly, the loss of whatever it was last night that hurt his heart after the euphoria of orgasm left him.

Is that crack in the door an invitation? An acknowledgement that occupying the same space and not speaking is horrible?  A white flag?  A cry for help?

Or perhaps nothing at all.

Unwilling to continue to stand here, confused and sulking and heat hurting, Sherlock crosses the room to the cracked door. After another moment’s hesitation, he pushes at the door and widens the crack until he can see inside to where Molly is passed out on the floor beside a puddle of grey vomit, no visible breathing causing her chest to rise and fall.

* * *

 

There is screaming in his flat. He can hear it clearly before he even manages to get the front door open. After the tiny dead children of the morning and Molly’s sudden reappearance, he wants nothing more to lock himself away with his violin. He texted Tomi and canceled dinner, claiming exhaustion. From the sound behind the door, she’s ignored him.

And she is not alone.

Allowing himself a few more seconds to steel his nerves, he opens the door.

“I’ll call the police!” yells Tomi. “I’ve got a DI’s direct line. Right here on my phone. See it? See it? Once a month we get brunch.”

They are in the living room and Sherlock should be sprinting to them, but dread has slowed him way down.

“I am sure Morstan loves that,” says Molly. “Do you stay up late and braid each other’s hair as well?”

“How do you know Mary?” Tomi demands. There is real fear in her voice now and Sherlock forces himself to hurry. “How do you know I know Mary? What is this? What do you want?”

“As I’ve said, my cat. I’m simply here for my cat.”

“He’s not your cat! He’s my fiancé’s cat.”

Sherlock enters the room in time to see the stricken look on Molly’s face. She takes a step away from Tomi, nearly stumbling. Toby is in her arms, purring so loud Sherlock can hear it from across the room and rubbing against her hideous jumper.

She and Tomi are faced off, separated by the coffee table.

“Fiancé,” Molly repeats. “Right. Of course. Molly, you wanker. You always miss something.”

“Molly?” asks Tomi, eyes going wide. “I’m not Molly. See, you don’t know everything.”

“I’m Molly, you daft bint.”

“It’s her cat.” Both women snap their heads around to stare at him. He moves to Molly’s side, scratching Toby’s head.

“But, it’s your friend’s cat. And your friend is… dead?” asks Tomi.

“Tomara Kane,” says Sherlock, “may I introduce Molly Hooper, Toby’s true owner.”

“As in the Molly Hooper, the so called detective who faked all those crimes and invented a super criminal and then jumped from the roof of Bart’s?” Tomi asks, struggling to understand.

“Need I remind you, my name was cleared,” says Molly through clenched teeth. She pets Toby with a touch too much vigor. “All do to our dear friend, Victor. Sherlock, remind me to see him and thank him personally.”

“Will do, Mo.”

“Bart’s,” Tomi says again. “As in the hospital where you work?”

“You didn’t mention me? At all? Well done on the honesty front, darling. A wonderful foundation for a marriage,” says Molly, smirking.

“Darling!” says Tomi. “You’re dead. You died. It was in all the papers!”

“Not dead. I checked,” says Molly. “Observation is not your strong suit, it is Miss Kane?”

“Alright, that’s enough, Molly,” says Sherlock. “Tomi, this is Molly Hooper, consulting detective and my life long friend. We’ve known each other for twenty-five odd years. In the spirit of honesty, I must tell you we did indeed date from ages sixteen to…”

He can’t quite recall.

“Twenty-three,” Molly supplies.  “Nearly twenty four.”

“Right. But Mycroft essentially raised Molly, along with me, so family is really a more apt description than friend. When Molly found faking her death necessary to her plan to thwart Moriarty, whom she most certainly did not make up, I assisted her. While John and Mary and the rest remained in the dark regarding Molly’s true fate, I’ve known and kept her secret. Oh, and I’ve taken care of Toby, but now it is time that Molly take him back,” says Sherlock. “There. Honesty.”

Tomi opens her mouth three times and closes it without saying a word. She shoots Molly a look of absolute loathing before collecting her jacket and storming out of the flat.

Sherlock sighs.

“That went well,” says Molly. “Engaged. Should have seen it sooner. She spells her charming nickname with an ‘I’ doesn’t she? Lovely.”

“No need to be snotty, Mo.”

“I best be off. I’ve my cat. That’s all I’m remotely interested in, only reason I would ever come here.”

“Molly—“

“Goodbye, Sherlock!” And then she is storming off too.

A night alone with his violin is a whole lot less appealing, but it is all he’s got at the moment.

* * *

 

_If convenient come to Baker Street._

Sherlock stares at the text from an unknown number. Obviously, Molly’s acquired a new mobile.

He sighs heavily and forces himself out of bed. As he drags his feet towards the loo, his phone buzzes in his hand.

_If inconvenient come anyway._

“If inconvenient come anyway,” he says to his reflection, using the whiney, high pitched voice to mock Molly even though she is not here. “Of course it’s inconvenient. It’s bloody dawn. Dawn!”

_SHERLOCK_

“I’m showering!” he yells at his mobile before entering the shower.

Forty minutes later he climbs the stairs to 221B and Molly asks him to solve crimes.

* * *

 

After their final case of a very long day, Molly invites him to fish and chips, makes a joke, and says thank you.

“Molly,” he asks as they descend the stairs. She’s yet to solve the train mystery but he has all the confidence in the world that it won’t take her long. “What was today about?” he asks.

“Saying thank you.”

“That’s wholly unnecessary.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Molly.”

“Moriarty slipped up,” she murmurs, standing to steps above so they are nearly eye level. “You know that, right? He was a bloody wanker and a fool, too. The one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me, is the one person who matters the most.”

He can’t help but smile and tuck a stray chunk of hair behind her ear. She even meets his eye for a full ten seconds. But Sherlock’s come to accept that mattering to Molly does not mean keeping her.

With her gone, it was so easy to be angry with her, but now that she’s returned he’s finding it impossible.

“You can’t do this again,” she murmurs, staring at her feet again. “Can you?”

“No.” He sighs and resists the urge to touch her again. “I’m not one for field work. Much prefer the lab.”

A crinkle appears between Molly’s brow as she frowns. “No, I meant—“

“I know what you meant. But you are still family, Mo. Always. But… well, yeah. Can’t do this again.”

Molly lets out a deep breath. “And I never said congratulations,” she says.

Sherlock snorts. “Well, it is difficult to slip such a thing in among all that yelling. She’s nice, Molly. A school teacher. We go to the pub on weekends and out to dinner. Her mum and dad love me. It’s… good.”

She winces, hearing the subtext.

It’s steady. It’s normal. It’s what she could never give him, not that she ever tried or would want too.

Not that he really wanted it to be that way with her.

“I hope you’ll be very happy, Sherlock Holmes.” She kisses him. It is chaste and although he lets her linger longer than he should, he still frowns when she pulls away.

He watches her walk away. It feels as though he’s spent his whole life watching her walk away.

Sod it.

“Molly!”

At the sound of his voice Molly startles and then swings around to gape at him. He jogs down the block until he’s standing directly in front of her.

“There was mention of fish and chips?” he says.

Molly grins at him, turning on her heel and marching off in the opposite direction. Sherlock follows and there is a new bounce in her step.

* * *

 

Sherlock sits in a chair by the window, blowing smoke from his third cigarette of the morning out and glancing at Molly every few moments.  She breathes steadily now and when he led her to their bed he made sure to arrange the blankets to give him a view of her chest as she pulls air into her lungs.

When he pressed his fingers to her neck in the single most terrifying moment of his life, he was able to find a pulse, faint as it was.  She revived, eyes rolling back in her head, to forbid him from calling for an ambulance.  Eventually she was coherent enough to mock him for his - completely justified - worry, but she offered no fight when he forced her into a lukewarm bath.

Molly's fascination with drugs has been cause for concern for years.  Before her father's death, she kept her promise to avoid such substances since he came home all those years ago to catch the tail end of her brief love affair with cocaine.  Although he suspected that she's tried it and more in recent months, Sherlock now has conclusive evidence in the form of track marks in her arms.

It is much worse than Sherlock previously thought.

Sherlock went against his best judgment and refrained from forcing her to go to the hospital.  Perhaps it was not technically an overdose, but it was a close enough thing and Sherlock is sick with fear.

And so weak for her. Always.

"You worry too much," says Molly from their bed.  His bed now.  His alone.  Last night he had sex with someone named Amanda and this bed is his alone.  "And you smoke too much."

"Fuck you," he mutters, finishing the cigarette and already itching for another.

"It certainly wasn't me you were fucking last night," Molly replies, sounding perfectly unbothered.  As if she isn't killing herself with heroin.  As if Sherlock didn't lose something last night.  "Who?  I could find out easy enough.  You might as well just spit it out."

He didn't think it was possible to feel worse.  Now there is a sensation of being filled with concrete in addition to his nausea.

"Do you even care?" he whispers, looking out the window.  He very much doubts that he will be able to look at Molly again without feeling as if death is upon him.

Molly's answering laugh is the worse sound he's ever heard, cruel and hoarse. "Excellent point, Sherlock.  You're finally getting it."

Sherlock lights another cigarette to keep from weeping.  "What are you doing, Mo?"

"What ever I want," she replies.  Her voice is rough and hoarse.  "There is no George to please.  No you to please.  Finally, I'm free."

Her every word is a bullet designed to torture him further. 

All their lives Sherlock sought to love her for herself.  He never wanted her to change herself to please him and never thought she felt the urge to do so.  He wonders now if the Molly he's always loved even exists.  He's caught her acting before, a reflection of what she interrupts as normal behavior, but he thought he could see through that, thought he could see the heart of her.

Shaking his head, Sherlock works to center himself, using memory to reassure himself that her words were carefully chosen to wound him and false.  True, he did ask her to refrain from indulging in narcotics, but this hardly counts as Molly changing her whole self to please him.

It was real, what they had, and despite her current downward spiral Sherlock knows Molly.  He will not allow her to rewrite history.  She may have convinced herself that their relationship was built on something false, but Sherlock knows better. 

"You will not bring that into this home, Molly," he says, thinking of the leather pouch filled with syringes he spotted in the study earlier, when he walked in on his worst nightmare.  "I won't have it.  This is a drug free flat.  Do you understand me?"

"As I am far from a moron, my intelligence far surpassing yours, I am more than capable of understand the most simple of sentences."

He draws as much smoke into his lungs as he's able, holds it in until it burns, and then blows it out the window.  It brings small relief compared to the truly fucked situation currently curled up in their bed.

His bed.

"Do you understand, Molly?" he asks again, feeling deadly but sounding slightly less so.

"Yes."

Surprised by her simple confirmation – but well aware that she did not actually agree to follow this rule – Sherlock puts out his forth cigarette and turns to look at her again, unable to ignore the prominence of her collar bones, the paleness of her lips, and the purple bags beneath her eyes.

"I'm going to sleep now," she says, eyes flickering closed.  "Come here."

"What?"

"Come sleep with me.  I'm cold.  And I know you are going to be monitoring my breathing anyway.  Might as well get in a bit of a lie down."

Absolutely loathing the pair of them, Sherlock crawls under the covers beside her.  She rolls into his chest as if these last months apart never happened.  As much as he wishes that were true, Sherlock cannot help but rest his hand on her throat against her pulse.  

* * *

 

Two days later when he returns from Bart's the door to the study is flung wide open.  Everything belonging to Molly – her collection of hideous sweaters, lab equipment, the old photo of Molly's mother that sat on the desk – is gone. 

Sherlock goes on three more dates with Amanda and then gives up on finding anything to make the pain of Molly's departure and the worry for her life any easier to bear.

 


	9. The Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly begins to understand the reality of marriage, much to her dismay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All y'all are lovely. Seriously. 
> 
> Monica is a great, great beta. 
> 
> There are quotes in here right out of the show that I definitely did not write.

"I need anecdotes."

As it is the middle of the night and he worked a double shift, Sherlock decides to ignore the voice, concluding that she must be a dream.  It is always a delight to dream of Molly, for in dreams there is no need to constantly remind himself of the myriad of ways she's hurt him over the years. 

Dreams are simple.

"Sherlock!"

The dream is poking him in the side.  He opens one eye and just makes out her outline in the dark.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he mutters into his pillow.

"No. I need anecdotes.  John anecdotes.  Funny ones."

"And I need sleep."

"But, Sherlock, this is important.”

Usually Dream Molly is not so whiney.

"I'll be no use to you until morning.  Now be silent."

Remarkably, Molly listens. He feels her jostling the bed and hears the thump of her shoes hitting the floor, but when she crawls under the covers all is silent and still.  He falls back to sleep quickly, convinced it is all a dream.

Mostly convinced it is all a dream.

* * *

 

When he opens his eyes in the morning, Molly is staring at him, dark eyes searching his face.

"It's morning," she murmurs.

He hums his agreement, absently searching out her hand amidst the blankets.

"You said you'd help me in the morning.  It's morning, Sherlock."

He mumbles something, bringing her hand to his lips.  The sound of Molly's small sigh hitting his ears rids him of his sleep-induced delirium and Sherlock realizes several things simultaneously.

One, Molly is in his bed. 

Two, Molly spent a large portion of the night in his bed and although this behavior – sneaking in, helping herself to his flat – is hardly unprecedented, she has not slept in his bed since her glorious return. 

And three, there are some very important reasons why this is bad, the most compelling being the horrible things she said before her departure two years ago, and the existence of Sherlock's girlfriend. 

No, fiancé.  As she likes to remind him loudly and often, Tomi is indeed his fiancé.

Sherlock scrambles out of bed, conscious of his nudity and blushing scarlet.

"What?" Molly asks as he wraps himself in a sheet.  She rolls onto her back, stretching her arms above her head.  "Does this mean you won't help me?"

"I... You… Of course I'll help you but first I must put on some clothes.  I'll meet you in the kitchen."

She nods and yawns and makes no move to exit his bed.  He really must have her out of his bed.  As it is, he'll have to launder all his bedding, despite having just done so, simply to rid himself of her smell.

"Molly!” he snaps.  "Kitchen."

She scowls at him and shuffles off to the kitchen.

As promised, he joins her a few moments later, pulling on a dressing gown over his t-shirt and sweats as he makes for the coffee pot.  He is somewhat stunned to see it already brewing.

He gapes at Molly, who is sitting atop his island countertop with her legs crossed, clothed in her standard leggings and a t-shirt of his from uni replacing her typical hideous jumper.

"I'm a graduate chemist," she says, shrugging.  "I am not utterly useless in the kitchen."

"I know," he says, pulling sausages from the refrigerator.  "But usually your time in the kitchen is spent conducting rather unsanitary experiments.  I'm surprised you picked up on something so normal."

"I had years to observe you," she says, rolling her eyes down at the notebook in her lap.  "I can manage coffee, you tosser."

Sherlock chuckles.

"And I can do tea, but I know how you prefer coffee first thing.  Now will you help me?  Please?"

He gets the sausage in the pan and turns to Molly.  "I'll help you, but first I must talk to you about something."

"What?" she asks, still focused on her notebook.

"You can't crawl into bed with me anymore, Mo.  I'm sorry. You just can't."

Molly abandons staring at her notebook to frown at him.  Sherlock can't look at her, unwilling to see the hurt and betrayal in her expression.  He pulls out more ingredients for breakfast.

"Oh," she says.

"I know you don't mean anything by it," he continues, talking in a rush.  "I know that it's habit, that you've been crawling into bed with me for most of your life but with Tomi... well, she won't understand.  Next time, she might be in there with me.  It's not fair to her, to have you there whenever you feel like it."

"Do you want your key back?" she asks, her voice faint.

He glances up to see Molly's hand extended, the key resting on her palm.  The thing has been in her possession for years, back when this was her flat too and they were happy. Not even the very worst of her druggie days inspired Sherlock to get it back from her.

He crosses the kitchen and closes her hand over the key.  "No.  You keep it.  You can still use this place as a bolt-hole, but lets just say the bedroom is off limits, all right?  Feel free to sleep on the couch."

"Fine."  She fights a smile as she returns the key to her ring.  "Now about this best man speech."

"John asked you to be his best man."

"You don't sound surprised.  Why don't you sound surprised?  I was shocked.  I am still shocked."

"You are his best friend," says Sherlock.  The coffee is done and he pours Molly a mug before serving himself.  He continues to prepare breakfast as Molly rattles off on how ridiculous she finds the whole concept of marriage.

"Although, I must say if I had to choose a companion for John, it would be someone like Lestrade," she muses as Sherlock brings his plate to the counter where Molly sits.  Although she refused her own meal, Sherlock knows she'll eat his.  She immediately steals a sausage and munches on it happily as she stares down at her notes. “John can be unbearably morose and Lestrade is a rather jolly fellow.”

"I'm glad you're getting along with Greg," says Sherlock.

"Who on on earth is Greg?"

Sherlock blinks.  "John's fiancé.  Greg Lestrade.  Greg.  You just said that you like him!"

"Bollocks. His name is Graham."

"It really isn't. What’s this then?” He gestures with a piece of toast towards her notes. “Your speech?”

“Yes.”

“Read me what you’ve got.”

With great delicacy, Molly clears her throat. She’s got the beginning but not much of the middle. The end is nearly complete and Molly recites it in a startling monotone. “Know this, today you sit between the man you have made your husband and the woman you saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. I know I speak for Lestrade when I say, we will never let you down and we have a lifetime to prove it.”

She blinks up at him and Sherlock smiles, feeling soft and tender.

“What?” she snaps, whipping out her pen, ready to change her whole speech at one word from Sherlock. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is it not good?”

“It’s perfect, Molly. Just perfect. _I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life_ ,” he repeats.

“That’s true!”

“It’s wonderful. Were you really confused when he asked you to be his best man? Or woman? Or whatever?”

“Yes. I suggested Mary. And then Mike Stamford. The whole thing was quite awkward. When I finally understood what he was going on about, I explained to him that I never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task that is for me as demanding and difficult as any I’d ever contemplated. Additionally I thanked him for the trust he placed in me and indicated that I am in some ways very moved. It later transpired that I’d said none of this out loud.”

Sherlock laughs for he can picture it so vividly: Molly frozen with shock, John somewhere between chagrined and a bit scared and totally exasperated. “That’s good,” he says. “You should put that in the speech.”

“Why?”

“It’s amusing, Molly. Trust me.”

Molly steals another sausage and they are back to arguing about Greg's name when the front door opens.

"Hello!" calls Tomi as she enters the kitchen.  "Hope you're hungry.  Brought a bit of breky.  Oh."  Her face falls as she takes in Molly sitting on the counter in one of his shirts, eating sausage, and Sherlock, fork full of eggs suspended in the air near his mouth.

The quiet stretches uncomfortably until Molly turns back to Sherlock.  "So you are saying when I give this speech I should not refer to John's future husband as Gordon Lestrade?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, setting down his fork.  Molly picks it up immediately and helps herself to his eggs.  "That is what I am saying.  Hello, Tomi.  Good morning.  How are you?"

His fiancé says nothing. 

Attempting to act as though there is nothing remotely odd or uncomfortable about this scene, he rounds the countertop where Molly sits to embrace Tomi.  She does not return his hug and doesn't seem to notice when he kisses her cheek.

"Molly just popped in for a bit of help writing her speech for the wedding,” says Sherlock.  "John's asked her to be the best man."

"Ah," says Tomi.  "How lovely."

"Yes," grumbles Molly.  "Bloody lovely.  Lovely, and not horrible, because I am totally equipped to handle this task of saying nice, fluffy things at a bloody wedding and not disappointing John and ruining the whole lovely affair!"

It is wrong to laugh at the hysterical, but Sherlock can't help but crack a smile.  "You'll be fine, Mo.  We'll practice."

With a sigh she slips off the counter and stuffs the last of the sausage in her mouth.  She stalks past them to the couch where she pulls on a black jumper over his t-shirt.  The leather bomber jacket follows.  "Best be off," she says.  "Tomi, it was just lovely to see you.  As always.  And Sherlock, perhaps Morstan will be a better source of help, for your bloody optimism is repulsive."

And then she is gone.  Sherlock relaxes.  "So, there was mention of breakfast?" he asks Tomi, rubbing her back.

She nods at him, still slightly dazed from the cursing tornado that is Molly when she's in a mood.

"Excellent," Sherlock says, taking the grocery bags and bringing them to the kitchen.  "Molly ate all the sausage."

"I didn't bring sausage," she replies, busying herself with the kettle for tea. "That's terrible for you, Sherlock.  Try some fresh fruit instead."

Fresh fruit is hardly a sausage replacement, but he makes no comment.  They settle on stools at the counter, Sherlock with his coffee, Tomi with her tea, both with plates of fruit.  The silence between them is not horrible, but it is not pleasant either and Sherlock braces himself for the questions Tomi is sure to have.

"So, Molly was over here early, wasn't she?" asks Tomi.

Sherlock hums in agreement.

"I didn't even expect you to be up, after working so much.  Did she wake you?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock replies. "But if not for her presence in the flat, I would have most definitely fallen back to sleep."

"Did she sleep here?"

"Yes," he says.

"Where?"

"Couch, I would assume."  He lies easily, both to spare her feelings and her rage.  Although he does not hold any hope of Molly and Tomi becoming friends, he would like them to at least get along, and that will never happen if Tomi has all the details. 

It's not like Molly will continue to crawl into bed with him again, so his lie does not matter.

"Does she do that often?  Just show up?" Tomi asks.

"Several times a month, usually," Sherlock says.  "Less so, since she's been back.  She calls this place her bolt-hole and often I won't even be here when she slips in to take a nap or raid my refrigerator."

"That's horrible."

"It isn't," he insists.  "It's just Molly.  I don't mind.  Really, I don't."

Tomi frowns and drinks her tea.  "She's so... comfortable.  Around you, with you and your things.  It's as if there are no boundaries."

"Molly... well, she isn't like other people.  She has no concept of social boundaries, especially with me.  We've known each other since we were ten, Tomi, and that's huge for Molly.  She learned to be comfortable around me decades ago and maybe most people would understand that our engagement should change things, like her eating off my plate and crashing at my flat, but not Molly.  It will take her some time to adjust, but I've explained to her that you are my priority now.  And that at least she understands."

Tomi nods and changes the subject to wedding planning.  Sherlock would honestly rather talk about his back-from-the-dead, socially inept, no-boundary-having ex-girlfriend.

* * *

 

"I'm here for Molly.  Molly Hooper."  He is frantic and demanding, far too curt given he is currently at Scotland Yard and in no position to make demands, but since receiving the call forty-five minutes past, he's been in a panic. 

It was not the call he's been dreading for years now – Mycroft, informing him they’ve found her skinny, track-marked body, dead somewhere – but there is little relief in it.  He's not seen her in nearly six months, her choice. 

Certainly not his.

In some ways, it is easier to not see her the way she is now. In the years since Molly abandoned Sherlock in favor of hard drugs, she’s made many appearances in his life at random times. She is always so sick and so mean, but at least with her right in front of him, he can be positive that she is not dead.

When his mobile rang he was out with Sally, on their fourth date.  She is lovely and witty, and most appealing to Sherlock, nothing like Molly Hooper.  With her, he thought he might have a shot at a real relationship for the first time since Molly, but even being out at a rather up class restaurant did not keep him from answering the call, nauseous with the possibilities.

And of course the call was Molly-related.  Of course she would emerge after six months of radio silence just when he found someone interesting and enjoyable.

It was not Mycroft or the hospital but Scotland Yard.  Legal woes are far preferable to her dead, but Sherlock will feel no relief until he sees her, breathing, living.

If the way she is now can be called living.

"We've got no one by that name booked."

The useless bit of human trash sitting behind the desk stares balefully at Sherlock, and he would like nothing better to eviscerate this man for his failure to provide answers.

Instead he breathes deep and fists his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"I was told to ask for a Detective Inspector Morstan."

"Should've lead with that, mate," he replies.  "Sign in."

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock signs in.

"Fourth floor, turn left.  It's a straight shot to the DI's office."

He storms away without another word, coat billowing out behind him. 

The ride to the fourth floor takes no less than an eternity and they stop for passengers on floors one and three.  Sherlock cannot help but glare at the lot of them for daring to slow his journey and his fellow lift-goers give him a wide berth.  He's out before the doors fully open.

As instructed, he turns left and there she is, sitting at the end of the long hall.

As he moves towards her with quick, long paces, her appearance comes more clearly into view.  Her long hair is greasy and dull, falling in a curtain around her pale face.  The black jumper she wears would be too large on Sherlock and she slumps down in the chair, legs splayed.  Her wrist is handcuffed to the arm of the chair and she gnaws on the fingernails of her free hand. 

All in all, she's managed to cultivate a textbook definition of the look of someone absolutely who does not care.

Caring is not an advantage, after all.

Still, it is a relief to see her, living, breathing, and Sherlock falls to his knees before her, taking her face in his hands. "Are you hurt?  What's happened?"

"Piss off," she mutters, avoiding eye contact.  Despite the vitriol in her tone, she does not pull away.

"You look awful," he whispers. Years of this, and it's only gotten harder.  Sherlock's insides twist at the sight of her grey skin, stretched too thin, her cheekbones made sharp by malnourishment.  There is no life in her dark eyes and Sherlock is breaking apart.

Molly shrugs.

"What did you do?" He asks again.

"Nothing.  I merely _observed_."

Glaring at her, he reaches for the sleeves of her shirt.  Now she does struggle against his touch, but it is disgustingly easy to overpower her and reveal her track marks.

Dread and fear swamp him and he lets go, running his hands through his hair as he sits back on the hard carpet.

"Didn't think you'd come," Molly says, so unbothered it enrages Sherlock all over again.  "You were on a date.  Fourth date.  Somewhere posh and French. Red wine. Pinot Noir.  She wears very inexpensive perfume."

"Molly."

"Course you came.  _Sentiment_."  She spits out the word, disgusted.  "I'm not the girl who cared, the one you foolishly thought you loved, as if such a thing is real.  Stop pining. It's pathetic."

This is hardly the most viscous of the attacks he's received since Molly started using, but it is still almost unbearable to stand here and take her abuse, to compare this drug addicted creature with the girl who was once friend and family and lover.

"Mr. Holmes?"  A woman leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.  She is attractive, if not a bit rumpled.  Her pale blond hair is messy and her eyes are tired.

“Yes," he says, getting to his feet.

"Mary Morstan," she says, extending her hand.

He shakes it. "DI Morstan."

Molly has her hand in his trouser pocket, fishing out his phone.  She cracks his passcode on the second try and pouts when he plucks the mobile from her hands.

"What's happened?" he asks the DI as Molly goes back to rooting through his pocket. "What's she done?  Is she under arrest?  What must I do to take her home?"

"Whoa, easy on there tiger.  Come inside, have a chat.  Will you bolt again, Ms. Hooper?  If I take back my cuffs?"

Molly considers for a moment, tapping her chin.  "No.  Sherlock would chase me down with much more efficiency then your blubbering, blathering, troupe of idiots you call a police force."

Detective Inspector Morstan sighs.  "It's this kind of talk that got you into this mess in the first place, Ms. Hooper."

Smirking, Molly rattles around the chain at her wrist until the DI produces the key.

They settle in the office, the desk separating Sherlock and Molly from DI Morstan.  At his side, Molly is a twitching, jittery mess.  She jiggles her knee and bites her thumbnail and looks everywhere all at once, except at Sherlock.

"There was a death.  Under a bridge.  One of the homeless.  Molly here was lurking around, throwing out facts that seemingly only the killer could know," says DI Morstan.

Sherlock's panic returns, before logic wins out.  Surely if Molly was a murder suspect she would not be sitting here, unchained and relatively free.

"I didn't murder anyone," she snarls.  This Sherlock believes, for as much as Molly would deny it, she is still the girl who worked herself into a tizzy over poor, dead birds when they were ten.  "I simply observed.  It is not my fault that your crew here is so inept that the first person with half a brain to show up is regarded with suspicion."

"Molly," Sherlock chastises.

She flashes him a mischievous little smile but when he does nothing but glare in return, she drops her gaze and slumps down in her seat, back to her knee jiggling and nail biting.

"As I was saying," says DI Morstan, "she did indeed point us in the direction of the murderer and cleared her own name, but we were forced to bring her in when she started raving—"

"Observing," Molly corrects.

"—about the ineptitude of my force.  It got bizarrely personal, causing quite a bit of anger and embarrassment."

"So she's committed no crime outside rudeness, yet you hold her here?" Sherlock asks.

"We also found drug paraphernalia on her person."

"But not heroin," Molly says. "Why would I have heroin?  Never seen any in all my life."

"Molly!" Sherlock snaps.  "Do be quiet."

She rolls her eyes but follows his instructions.

“I’ll let her off with a warning,” says DI Morstan, leaning back in her chair. Her expression is thoughtful. “You did solve three major crimes today. Pity you are such a mess, Miss Hooper. We could use more like you around the Yard.”

Molly sits straight up, suddenly so alert it is alarming. “Could you? Use me? I could help you?”

“Not like this you can’t.”

“Interesting,” murmurs Molly. “May we go home now?” She turns to look expectantly at Sherlock.

“Sure,” answers the DI. “Just don’t do it again.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock demands. “That’s all?”

DI Morstan shrugs and gets to her feet. Molly and Sherlock follow suit as the DI walks them out. “She’s got friends in high places.”

“Mycroft,” says Molly. “This has Mycroft written all over it.”

“Obviously.”

* * *

 

"I'll do it," she says after he slides into a cab after her.  He would keep her within sight as long as she will allow. As sickening it is to see her like this, as much as her current state shreds his heart, having her near is significantly easier than being away from her, wondering if she is still living, breathing.

"Do what, Molly?" 

"Clean up.  Be sober. I want cases."

"Cases."  His exhaustion and worry and hurt make it near impossible to follow Molly-logic.

"Like with the birds.  When we first met.  Do you remember?  And Carl Powers.  Never solved that one.  But I solved three today, two murders and a robbery. Two of those I figured out while handcuffed in the hall."

"And if you were sober, the DI would bring you in," he says, finally understanding.  He will not allow himself to hope.  True, not once in these last years – despite Sherlock's begging and Mycroft's threats – has Molly expressed the slightest desire to stop.

"Yes.  I'll do it.  Take me to your place.  I'm staying with you."

"All right, then."

* * *

 

“Murder scenes? Locations of… murders?”

“Yes. Pub crawl. Themed.”

“On ever street you’ve found a corpse,” Sherlock says, nodding as he leans against a countertop in the lab. “Obviously. Where do I come in?”

“Don’t want to get ill. That would ruin it.” She frowns and waves her hand around her head. “I imagine it would spoil the mood.”

“You, Miss Hooper, are a graduate chemist. Can’t you work this out on your own?”

“I lack the practical experience,” she replies, appearing very prim.

“Meaning you think I like a drink.”

“Occasionally.”

“That I am a drunk.”

“What? No. No. But, really Sherlock, you are rather devoted to your wine.”

Sherlock stares. Under his gaze Molly fidgets and wrings her hands together, her eyes firmly locked on her shoes.

“You look… well?” she says, attempting to appease him.

“I am.”

“How’s whatshername? Tomi, is it?”

Sherlock rolls her eyes, knowing full well that Molly remembers the name of the woman he’s to marry.

“She’s still not your biggest fan, although I’m confident she’ll come round,” he says, sounding overly chipper in a failed attempted to hide his discomfort as he remembers the dreadful morning last month with the three of them in his flat.

“Why does that matter?” Molly asks, blinking in confusion. “If she comes round, what does it matter?”

“For one thing it will make Christmas less awkward.”

“She’ll be at Christmas!” Molly shrieks, clutching at her chest and gaping up at him.

“We’re getting married, Mo,” Sherlock says, blinking at her. “It is traditional for married people to spend holidays together.”

Although to most people it would be obvious, this little bit of news leaves Molly gob smacked. Seems that she hasn’t given much thought to the logistics of marriage.

“Okay…” She wrings her hands again and won’t look anywhere near him. “Well, calculate John’s ideal intake and mine. We are to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening. Lightheaded good.”

“Urinating in wardrobes, bad,” he finishes.

Molly giggles.

The sound will never stop delighting him.

* * *

 

"Sherl, my pet," Tomi says, appearing in the entry of the study.

His fingers falter on the strings of his violin and he very reluctantly opens his eyes. "Yes?"

"How long are you going to be at it?"

"Dunno. Just got started.  I thought you were marking papers?" he asks, swinging his bow around at his side, twitchy with the need to play.  "Or did you want to do something together?"

"No, no.  I really do have quite a bit to do.  Just thought I'd ask."

Not understanding the purpose of the interruption, Sherlock gives her a bemused nod.  She nods back.  They both do far more nodding than anyone should.

"Right," says Tomi, frowning slightly.  "Well."

And then she disappears, pulling the door closed behind her.  Sherlock blinks at the space his fiancé occupied seconds before.  Shrugging off her bizarre behavior, Sherlock once more lifts his violin.

He is allowed less than five minutes of uninterrupted playing before Tomi is once more leaning against the doorframe, studying her fingernails.

"Sherlock?" she says.

"Yes?"  He tries very hard to refrain from snapping.

"Would you like to sit with me maybe?  Read while I work?"

He blinks at her.  "If the music is disturbing you, please just say so."

"All right.  I'm sorry.  I know you love it, but I just can't think with you screeching away in here."

It is impossible not to think of Molly and all the years they lived together, when she would demand he play when she had some thoroughly baffling problem needed thinking out.  And when his fingers would tire she would sigh heavily and suggest he lay with his head in her lap so she could stroke his hair as an adequate substitution for music.

"Screeching," he replies through a clenched jaw.

"It's not you.  You are wonderful, I'm sure.  It's just stringed instruments in general that are not to my liking," she says in a rush, blushing slightly.

It is endlessly irritating.  There is no particular reason for her to be here tonight.  She's work to do and Sherlock must be up early for a shift in the morgue.  Dinner was pleasant and it is always a joy to cook for someone who appreciates it, but she easily could have left after eating.

But she really is so very pretty with her big brown eyes and floral dresses.  This is good practice for the hopefully very distant future when they are married and living together, so Sherlock returns his instrument to its case.

"All right," he says.

* * *

 

On the sofa, Sherlock nearly dies of boredom. All the words in his dull book blur together and Tomi hums as she decodes the scratches passing for her student’s writing.

How she can find Sherlock’s violin irritating while she hums so is a complete mystery.

He sits next to Tomi on the sofa, bouncing his knee and absently massaging her foot and staring at his dull book and not listening to the off-key humming.

When his mobile vibrates in his pocket, it is an immense relief and he answers after only one ring.

"Sherlock!"

The volume of her greeting forces him to hold his mobile aloft to spare his eardrums further trauma.

From position curled up against the arm of the couch, Tomi glances up from her worksheets.

"What, Molly?" he asks, scooting away from his fiancé and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, ready to spring up and run to her at the first sign of need.  "Everything all right?"

"Fine, fine."  And then she giggles wildly.

Smirking, Sherlock leans back on the couch. "What happened to the sweet spot?" he asks.

"Dunno.  But I'm blaming you."

"Those calculations were perfect,” he insists, chuckling.  “Not my fault you couldn't follow my simple instructions."

“Where we went wrong, I really couldn’t say.” Her attempt to sound prim is lost with the slurring of her speech.

“Is that, is it Sherlock?” John’s voice joins Molly’s. From the other end of the line comes the clear sounds of a struggle.

“Bloody wanker!” shouts Molly as John laughs.

“Oi,” he says. “Oi, Sherlock. Didyah know that our Miss Hooper was under the misinterpletation—“

“Misinterpletation?” shrieks Molly. “Idiot!”

“—that there is a king of England.”

“She also does not know that the Earth revolves around the sun,” supplies Sherlock.

John laughs again, a great booming sound, as they wrestle over the phone once more.

“Not true,” insists Molly. “I relearned all that solar system drivel when a case made it clear why the information could possible benefit me in someway. You are completely missing the point, Sherlock.”

“The point?”

“The point!” she shouts. John is laughing again. “I know ash. I know ash. Tell them, Sherlock. I learnt it because of you and your smoking and you and your smoking. Tell them.”

“Tell who? You know ash. Everyone knows you know ash.”

“These blokes didn’t. Bleeding morons, the lot of them. Gone now. It’s just John and me, here in the back of this police vehicle.”

“You are in the back of a police vehicle?” Sherlock asks. “How are you calling me, then?”

“They’ve heard of me,” she says. “Let me keep my mobile.”

“Ah. And do you need me to come retrieve you from jail?” he asks, already moving to stand.

Beside him Tomi looks both confused and disgruntled.

“No,” says Molly, as if it is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard him say. “No. No. Are you a DI with numerous contacts and pull at Scotland Yard?”

Sherlock sits back down.

“No, can’t say that I am.”

“Then you are really of no use to me but thanks ever so for confirming that I do, indeed, know ash.”

When he hangs up the phone, he turns to share a laugh with Tomi regarding John and Molly’s level intoxication, but the woman he’s to marry is completely absorbed with her marking.

* * *

 

“Mycroft!” she yells into her phone.

Sherlock comes stand silent behind her, trying not to laugh at her obvious agitation, as they wait for the reception to begin. The happy couple is having their picture taken in the gardens while the remainder of their guests mill about. The service was lovely and the sunny yellow room where they now stand is equally so.

Sherlock is rather amazed that the whole thing turned out. Between Molly and John, the planning of this wedding seemed doomed from the start, but thanks to Greg and Mary – and even Sherlock on an occasion or two – it turned out beautifully.

Molly looks beautiful also, although it is strange to see her in such feminine attire. Her lavender dress fits her perfectly, the lace following the curves of her body. The hem stops above her knee and this, combined with the tall heels on her feet, do wondrous things to her legs.

Sherlock tries not to stare.

“Involved?” she snaps, into the phone. There is only one person she could speak to with such rage and familiarity that is currently not milling about waiting for the reception to begin. “I’m not involved… John asked me to be his best man. Or woman. Or whatever. How could I say no? I’m not involved!”

Knowing that Mycroft is undoubtedly working Molly into a tizzy and doing nothing to make this difficult day any easier, he makes a grab for the phone. Unfortunately, Molly is quicker and she turns at the last moment to avoid his lunge.

"Give me the phone," he says. Sherlock makes another attempt for the mobile, but this time Molly plays dirty and kicks his shin.  "Ow!"

"I don't know what he wants, Mycroft.  But he's so demanding.  When did he get so demanding?" Molly asks his brother.

"That's rich," Sherlock mutters, bending to rub his leg.  "Coming from you."

Molly rolls her eyes.  "Yes, Mycroft. He said nearly the exact same thing."  She pauses, allowing Mycroft to respond.  "Fine, give into his every whim as you always have.  Sherlock, your brother would like to know why you want to talk to him?"

"Where is he?  Why isn't he here?"

"Goldfish, Sherlock.  He thinks you're a goldfish."

"Give me that."  He's back to tugging the mobile from her ear, avoiding her feet and using his superior height.

"No!"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Don't tell me what to do, Sherlock."

"Don't call me a goldfish, Molly."

“I didn’t call you a goldfish. Mycroft did. And it’s not just you. Everyone is a goldfish.”

They pull the phone back and forth between them.  The whole thing nearly devolves into a wrestling match right there in the sunny yellow room, surrounded by their fellow wedding goers.  Despite being a grown man, engaged to a grown woman, bickering with Molly is delightful and far too much fun.

She wiggles away from him and promptly stuffs the phone down her dress, nestled between her breasts.  Sherlock stares too intently and considers it far too seriously.  Molly smirks at him in triumph when it becomes clear that digging around in her bra is where he draws the line for acceptable wedding behavior.

"Oi!"  Mary Morstan is between them, looking as lovely as Sherlock's ever seen her in a clinging green dress that seems to make her skin glow.  "Is that your brother on the line?" she asks, looking at Sherlock expectantly and pointing at Molly's breasts.

"Yes," Sherlock nods.

"Excellent!"  Mary grins and reaches down the front of Molly's dress, cleanly retrieving the phone before walking off to the corner to chat with Mycroft.

Molly blinks down at her chest before blinking up at Sherlock.  He shrugs and as one they both turn to stand shoulder to shoulder, watching Mary Morstan smile as she speaks enthusiastically to Mycroft of all people.

"What is happening?" Sherlock murmurs, feeling very uncomfortable.

"She's beaming, Sherlock.  Speaking with Mycroft, our Mycroft, is causing her to beam."

"Oh now, she's laughing."

"That's much worse."

"Surely she is laughing at him, not with him.  He doesn't make jokes."

Mary plays with her hair and gives her best impression of a day dreaming child. She fiddles with her necklace, catches sight of Sherlock and Molly's gaping, and rolls her eyes dramatically as she chats away to Mycroft, obviously amused by the world around her in general.

"There is a mystery here, Sherlock," Molly whispers as Mary sways around, still chatting with his brother. “And I will solve it."

"Of that, my dear, I have no doubt. What’s this?" Sherlock asks, taking her hand and frowning over the dark brown nail polish he finds there.  "A manicure?"

Molly grimaces and nods.

"For the wedding?" he asks.  The dark color doesn't exactly match her lavender dress and Molly typically favors garishly bright colors when she paints her nails, which is typically only once every few years.

"Not really," she replies, making no move to pull her hand from his.  She leaves Sherlock to drop her hand himself.

"What then?"

"I'd rather not say."

Curiosity piqued, he cocks his head to the side as he studies her.  Molly studies everything else.  "The color's a bit like dried blood," he observes.

"That what I said!"  Molly says, flapping her hands around her head.

Sherlock startles by the way Molly goes from calm and composed to highly irritate over an innocuous comment.

"I chose this color precisely because it is identical to dried human blood and when I mentioned this to your fiancé she recoiled and called me freak and clutched at her stomach like she was ill.  And when I once more attempted to find common ground by remarking that the color she selected was similar to freshly oxygenated blood, she stomped off!  Stomped right off.  I've heard of people who go queasy at the sight of blood, but simply at its mention?  That's absurd.  Are you truly going to marry a woman that stomps off every time you discuss your autopsies over supper?  Really, Sherlock."

"Wait.  Wait, wait, wait.  You got your nails done?  Professionally?  With Tomi?"

"I refuse to call her Tomi.  It is a ridiculous name for a grown woman."

"You professionally had your nails done with—“

“Yes, Sherlock. Is that not what I just said?” Molly huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Do your ears no longer function properly?”

“Why? Did Tomi invite you?” he asks, completely stunned.

“No, I invited her,” Molly replies, studying Mary across the room where she somehow is managing to continue conversing with Mycroft. “It was my idea. Well, Morstan’s, to be honest. But certainly not your fiancé’s.”

“Why?” he asks again.

Molly sighs heavily and turns to look him right in the eye. “So every Christmas for the rest of our lives will not be a horrible, brutal, awkward affair. Although I fear I did more damage than good.”

He is speechless. Molly went and had her nails professionally done with someone she does not like for Sherlock. She’s trying to get along with Tomi for Sherlock. The whole thing is amazing.

"So," says Mary as she saunters back over and returns Molly's mobile.  "Lovely ceremony, wasn't it?"

Molly grunts unintelligibly.

Sherlock nods.

"And you, Miss Hooper," says Mary, waggling her eyebrows. "Who knew you could clean up so nice?”

“Likewise, Morstan.”

Cheers erupt as John and Greg take their seats at the front table that hosts the wedding party. They look flushed and happy.

“Oh, bugger,” mutters Molly. “Speech time is nearly upon me. After all the eating.”

“Just like we practiced,” he replies.

“Just like we practiced.”

 


	10. Of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is involved in a whole lot of breaking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is so lovely about this story.  
> Monica is the best of all betas and you all are the best of all readers.

“I’ve figured it out!”

Breathless and grinning, Molly appears at his elbow so suddenly, it makes Tomi choke on her wine.

“Solved the murder then, did you?” Sherlock asks, absently patting his fiancé’s back as she coughs and sputters. “I’m assuming that’s what caused your speech to derail there at the end. A case. We certainly did not practice that,” he says, turning to tell Tomi again, as he wants no responsibility for the fiasco that was the end of a nearly perfect best man-woman-whatever speech.

Tomi nods absently, although it is clear that she finds the whole thing completely bizarre and mildly uncomfortable. Sherlock holds her hand as it seems like the sort of thing one does as a gesture of silent comfort and support. Molly is very distracted by this and cannot seem to stop staring at their twined together fingers.

“Molly?” he says.

“What did we do to her?” Tomi whispers. “Do you think she’s finally lost it?”

“Molly!” Sherlock says her name a bit louder and snaps his free fingers in front of her face until she startles and blinks. “Was it a murder? Get it all solved up? Can the party commence?”

“What?” she snaps. “Oh. No. I mean, yes, there was almost a murder. Almost two, but no one died and the criminal was led away in cuffs. But that’s not what I was referring too.”

“What then?” asks Sherlock.

Beside him, Tomi sighs. Throughout Molly’s rambling about murder that formed the impromptu end of her otherwise flawless speech, he caught Tomi looking at her the way she does her very young students, only with less kindness and patience.

Given everything, Sherlock supposes he can’t really blame her.

“Mary and Mycroft,” Molly says, radiating joy and buzzing with the joy of a good mystery solved. “Mycroft and Mary.”

“You say that like there _is_ a Mycroft and Mary,” Sherlock says, completely skeptical.

“Well I do not presume to know every detail of their relationship but they’ve always been a team, haven’t they? Both feeling the need to hover over my shoulder like a parent. Regardless of the details, they have most definitely fucked,” Molly says as if it all very obvious.

Tomi squeezes his hand and lets out a scandalized squeak. Sherlock thoroughly shares her shock and disgust.

“Good lord,” he says. “You really think Mycroft is capable of such a thing?”

“Being as Mary is clearly with child, I would say yes. Yes, Mycroft is apparently capable of such a thing,” Molly says before rattling off all the evidence that proves her right.

Around the words _with child_ a buzzing started in Sherlock’s ears, so he can do nothing but gape. He is nowhere near capable of matching Molly’s level of enthusiasm.

“Sherlock!” Molly shouts, stomping her foot and scowling up at him. “Do you not realize what this means? We are to have a niece or nephew! Isn’t it brilliant!”

She then throws her arms around him, giving him a brief and awkward – Tomi still holds his hand – hug before darting off the share the happy news with Mary herself.

“Is it always like this with Molly around?” asks Tomi when she recovers.

Sherlock is still feeling rather queasy at the thought of Mycroft spawning and resolves not to think about this possibility until he absolutely much.

“Yes,” he replies. “This sort of thing certainly seems to follow her around.”

“I think I’d like a another glass of wine.”

“Tomara Kane, you are a beautiful and brilliant woman. To the bar.”

* * *

 

They make a stop in the seedy, underbelly of London, to Molly's flat or at least the hovel where she’s currently staying.  She doesn't allow him to come in with her, insisting that the cabbie will abandon them here, forcing them to take the tube.

Sherlock loathes the tube.

When Molly returns ten minutes later with a backpack, a duffle, and a little grey kitten wriggling in her arms, she is high.

Sherlock is a fool and Molly is a junkie and of course she shot up a final time.

"Mo," he says, voice breaking.  He runs his thumbs under her eyes, grimacing over her blown pupils.

"This is Toby."  Speech slurred and lazy, she thrusts the small creature into his hands.

"No more," he says, drawing small comfort from the warm, mewling thing now in his arms.

"I know."

"I'm checking your bags when we get home.  You will not bring any narcotics into my flat."

"I'm sober.  Why would I bring narcotics into your flat? Plus I remember the rule. The flat is a drug free flat."

She cuddles into his side and Sherlock wraps an arm around her.  He holds the kitten and keeps his other palm pressed to Molly's throat.  It is only the pulse there that convinces him that she lives and lives and lives.

* * *

 

They arrive at Sherlock's flat and he keeps Molly close, shouldering her bags, sticking the kitten in his pocket, and keeping an arm around her as he ushers her up the steps.  Molly hisses against the lights he flicks on when he finally gets her into the flat.  The bags are dumped on his sofa and the cat is set free.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

Predictably, she shakes her head.

"Well, I am.   You interrupted my dinner."

"I interrupted your whole life."

She trails close behind him as he moves to the refrigerator, removing leftovers.  As he reaches for a plate, Molly wraps her arms around his waist from behind, her face pressed into his back.  Earlier tonight she called him pathetic and it is true, because instead of pulling away, he turns to hold her in return.

After missing her for six months, Molly is really here, living, breathing, embracing him as if the last three years since she left him never occurred.

Except she is high and rank and in one moment she calls him pathetic while the next she is declaring sobriety as if it will be that easy.

She is so slight in his arms and Sherlock struggles not to weep. There will be time enough for that when Molly sleeps and he stays up through the night, hand on her pulse, ensuring that she lives.

"Sherlock?"

At the angry inquiry, he lifts his head to see Sally, loitering in the doorway to his bedroom, clothed only in a short, silk robe.  For a moment he just blinks at her, unsure how she even entered the flat, but she'd left her phone here before dinner so when Sherlock ran off to Scotland Yard, he’d tossed her a spare key.

He jumps away from Molly, clearing his throat.  With all the speed of a particularly lazy sloth, Molly glances about the flat, eyes narrowing when she gets his date in her sights.

"Ah, Sally."  Sherlock steps between the two women in his flat, hoping to spare Sally Molly's _observing_ , wondering if the heroin has slowed Molly to the point where deductions are impossible.

Although Sally is half naked, emerging from his room.  It is all painfully obvious.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," he says.

"So it would seem."  She glares at Sherlock, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Not what it looks like," he says.  "This is my childhood friend, Molly.  She needs a place to stay for a few days."

"I see," says Sally, sounding very much like she does not see at all.

Molly elbows her way around Sherlock, tapping her chin as she studies Sally.  Sherlock is impressed that Sally does not so much as flinch under the intense gaze of an obvious junkie.

"Police officer.  Aspires to be much more.  Good at her job, but she must work very hard. It is all practice rather than natural ability. Probably knows our DI Morstan at the Yard, although Morstan would not know her for she is too low level.  This was your fourth date although you've slept together since the second, no, first.  It's been decent so far, although not spectacular.  Don't worry, dear.  He gets much better."

"Molly!"

"What the hell?" snaps Sally.  "You told her all that?"

"He told me nothing."  Molly is cold and cruel, eyes glassy, limbs barely able to keep her upright.  Sherlock has a hand on her shoulder, serving the dual purposes of keeping Molly from lunging at Sally while also keeping her on her feet.  "I simply _observed_.  It is clear in your stance, your familiarity with Sherlock's flat, although he's never been to yours.  Bit of a slob, aren’t you, and a workaholic at that."

"Enough, Molly."

She shrugs his hand off her shoulder.  "Fine.  I'm off to bed."  And she sways off to his bedroom, pulling her jumper over her head, revealing her completely naked back before disappearing through the doorway.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" demands Sally.  She does stand like an officer, like she spends the majority of her time with a gun strapped to her hip.  "You ditched me on a date to retrieve your junkie ex-girlfriend?"

He bristles, experiencing a latent instinct to defend Molly, but there is nothing that Sally's said that is inaccurate.

"She had a spot of legal trouble with DI Morstan and I had to pick her up."

“You know that's where I work.  I could've gone with you.  You could have explained properly."

Sherlock crosses the room, closing the bedroom door that Molly left open, despite her dramatic exit.

"You've met her, Sally.  Four dates in and you want me to introduce you?  To drag you to your place of employment to talk my… to get Molly out of legal troubles?  I think not."

"Why is it up to you to get her out of anything?"

Sherlock sighs and does not have the words to explain.  She's Molly.  She's _his_ Molly and there may come a day when he cannot endure the barrage of cruel words followed shortly by her demands for help, the constant fear that she'll finally succeed in killing herself or that she'll just disappear -- but he is not near that point.

He is not near that point and it makes dating a fruitless, unfair exercise.

"We've been taking care of each other since we were ten," Sherlock says, shrugging.

"What is she, to you?" Sally asks.  It's far too invasive for four dates in and Sherlock is antsy to get to Molly, to lie down with his fingers on her pulse, to prove that she is living and breathing.

"It's complicated." 

Sally is lovely and witty and sharp.  She deserves far more than " _it's_ _complicated_ ," but it's the best he can manage.

"I'd like my clothes, please," she mutters.  "They're folded on your dresser."

Sherlock nods and slips into the bedroom. 

Molly is laid on the floor for no apparent reason, playing with the small kitten on her chest. She’s replaced her jumper with a button up of his.

"If you are planning on sleeping in my bed, you will bathe, Molly Hooper," he says as he collects Sally's clothes.

Molly gives him a dreamy smile and a salute.

Back in the main room, Sherlock turns his back as Sally dresses.

"Do you see it getting less complicating any time soon?" she asks.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Then don't call me."

With her departure, Sherlock feels only relief.

He searches Molly's bags, surprised to find she did not lie when she claimed to have no drugs on her, and then digs up a can of tuna for Toby.  He'll set out some newsprint for the cat in the bathroom tonight and hope he doesn't make too terrible a mess.   His abandoned leftovers go back in the refrigerator and when he returns to his room, Molly is missing.  Panic claws at his throat, but only for a moment until he finds her in his rapidly filling tub.

"Sherlock!"  The smile is near blinding, her eyes too glassy, but he is warmed by her joyous tone anyway.  She beckons him closer and he sits, resting his chin on the edge of the tub.

"Sherlock," she says, reaching out to play with his hair. 

"Yes, Molly?"

"You are very pretty.  It's the cheekbones."

"Last I saw you, you told me I look like an inbred horse."

"I would never."

"You did."

"Well, I lied.  People do do that you know.  Lie.  You are the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  Also the eyes.  Otherworldly eyes.  So bright.  So blue.  Like copper carbonate when it burns."

Sherlock chuckles, but it is a sad sound that hurts his chest.  In some ways, these moments are worse than her biting cruelty, for he is presented with a torturous glimpse at the girl she once was, the one who loved him back.

"Have you ever seen copper carbonate burn? ‘Course you have. Looks just like your eyes. Do you love me, Sherlock?" she whispers.

"You already know the answer to that."

She sits up in the tub, her breasts now visible above the soapy water.  Her grip on his hair tightens. "Say it."

"I love you."

Molly hums with pleasure and her eyes flicker shut.  "Guess what."

"What?" he whispers, breathless.

"I borrowed your toothbrush."

And he recoils.  "Disgusting, Molly!"

* * *

 

At the reception, after he plays the waltz he wrote for John and Lestrade, unintentionally making Mary of all people weep, he keeps an eye on Molly.  It is an old habit, as are most of his instincts regarding her, and if anything, her two year absence only made his need to know her exact location even more pressing,

The lights go down, the DJ starts up, and as he dances with his fiancé he glances at Molly every few seconds over the top of Tomi's head.

She is speaking enthusiastically with the newlyweds, but when the groom and groom look at each other, Molly appears sad.  It is not the terrifying degree of which she hid her fears from John before the fall, but the melancholy is there.  She's never been one for change.  Sherlock hopes that she knows that she isn't alone now that her best friend is married.

"I love weddings!"  Tomi shouts in his ear, pulling his face down to her much shorter level.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asks, dragging his eyes from the trio huddled in the center of the dance floor, smiling and laughing now.

"Weddings!" Tomi repeats, her lips at his ear.  "I love them.  Doesn't it make you want to plan ours?"

Sherlock nods without meaning it.

Then Molly is moving towards the exit, small and unnoticed by any but Sherlock.  Without making any conscious decision to do so, he pulls away from dancing with Tomi, muttering a quick "just a tick," and dashing after Molly.  By the time he catches up, she’s pulled on the red jacket and is marching out towards the gardens.

“You better not be leaving the wedding this early, Molly,” Sherlock calls out with the first stupid thing that comes to him, to keep Molly from fleeing. He continues to approach her as she stops, shoulders tensing. She slowly turns to face him, zipping up her leather jacket as she does so. The red clashes horribly with her lavender dress, but in the dark it hardly matters.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” she murmurs, staring intently at her feet.

She is so sad, so tired, and Sherlock decides he’s had far too much wine for this conversation.

“You’re not alone, Molly,” he replies. That’s what she’s got to be worried about, with John moving out and married. She’s got to feel replaced, abandoned.

She grimaces and turns away. “Piss off.”

“You are always walking away,” he says, not expecting her to stop now. Since her return, he’s made the deliberate decision to forgive her, to forget all she said when she left him last time, but the alcohol has brought it all back and suddenly he’s angry. He’s furious.

He doesn’t expect Molly to acknowledge his words but she is turning on her heel again, with painful slowness.

“You never figured it out, did you?” she asks, shaking her head. "Oh, Sherlock," she murmurs, looking to the starry sky.  "You beautiful idiot."

"Yes, idiot is an apt description, as even after all you said before you departed, how you hurt me, I welcomed you home like it never happened."

Molly chuckles.  "I truly thought you would figure it not long after I left.  I see now I overestimated your deductive abilities, which are lacking under ideal circumstances and nearly nonexistent where I am involved.  Sentiment."  For once she does not spit out that word with disgust.  She simply sighs as if she is exhausted.

"Just stop insulting me and say what you mean."

"I lied, you daft git!" she shouts, storming forwards to glare up at him and poke his chest with a single, bruising finger.  "I wanted you with me.  I always want you with me, but Mycroft talked me out of the idea of you coming.  It was foolish, Sherlock, to ask that of you.  And then you just wouldn't listen to me, so stupidly stubborn and brave, you are.  I hurt you with words, with lies, because you wouldn't take no for an answer!  You wouldn't let me keep you safe. And I was so close to… Never mind. Ancient history. Doesn’t matter."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock says.  His eye twitches.

"Don't, don't, don't.  He simply talked sense into me.  I'd have got you killed, Sherlock.  Gotten myself killed protecting you.  It was a stupid, selfish idea and it didn't take long for Mycroft to make me see that."

"Oh," he says, feeling a bit like a deflated balloon.  His head spins, not with alcohol but with information.

She gives him a watery smile, blinking back her tears and stretching up to kiss his cheek.  Her heels make the whole thing easier and Sherlock sighs, eyes closed, breathing her in.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

Again, Molly is walking away, footsteps quick, shoulders hunched.  He watches her for a moment, completely stunned, before some sense snaps into him.  He is done watching her walk away.

"Molly!"

She stumbles slightly, but doesn't turn and doesn't stop.

"You just said you always want me with you," he says, following.  "So bloody well stop and let me be with you."

"Piss off, Sherlock."

"Molly," he says, walking right behind her as she stomps through the trees, rounding a crumbling stone outbuilding.

"What?  I have things to do. A case!  Yes, that's it.  A case."

"You just solved a case. At the wedding, mind you. And another, if you count Mary, but I can’t currently think about that without my brain exploding."

"Go away, Sherlock."

They are circling the small structure now, acting completely ridiculous.

"This conversation isn't over."

"It is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"Mo—“

She whirls suddenly, her hair flying out around her as it is down for once, face red and furious.  "You were supposed to wait for me!"

For the second time in a span of just a few moments, Sherlock's world once more is torn down with just a few words from this woman, who has always been so vital, too vital.

"You were supposed to figure out that my words were just words, designed to keep you safe, and you were supposed to wait for me to come back.  I thought of you constantly and it kept me going through all the horrible, horrible things I had to do.  I killed people, Sherlock, but thinking of you made me all right.  And then I come home, to you, to John, and you are both fucking engaged!  I was off killing, keeping you safe, and you lot were just fine!"

"He thought you were dead and I thought you didn't want me," Sherlock snaps, angered by her anger.

"Fine. Whatever.  John is a hopeless romantic, so fine, but you."  Again, she pokes his chest.  "You were supposed to wait for me.  I've been trying to figure out since the Irene Adler debacle how to be with you again, before really, after Moriarty’s first appearance but I didn’t want to admit it because you are the singular most terrifying thing to ever happen to me, and then you saved my life and then you went and got yourself bloody—“

There is only one thing to do with this combination of rage and elation so he kisses her quiet.

 She returns the kiss and against his lips he can feel her anger, every bit as potent as his. It simply spurs him on, has him backing her into the side of the crumbling stone building and biting her lower lip, because she has no reason to be angry with him, not after all she’s done.

Again and again she’s ruined them. And Sherlock keeps letting it happen.

"No.  No, no, stop!"

At the first no he releases her immediately, but Molly still feels the needs to shove him with all her strength, causing him to stumble.

She is red faced and furious.  It is Sherlock's place to be red faced and furious, despite the absurd Molly logic that somehow makes him the party in the wrong for believing her when she told him – yet again – that she did not want him.

"You don't get to be angry!" he replies.  "It's your fault we are like this.  You were the one that stopped caring."

"I never did!  I never could!"

"You are the one who has been jerking me around for years, wanting me one moment, calling me pathetic the next.  After all that, how could you have possibly expected me to understand that when you didn't want me this last time, before you left to do your horrible, horrible things, you didn't mean it!" He is shrieking, hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers.

Molly's answering smile is the most tragic thing he's even seen.  "I don't," she murmurs, staring at her feet.  "I can't."

That tragic smile and her admittance of defeat burns out the last of Sherlock's rage.  "I would have waited, you know.  If I'd known."

There were so many ways Molly could have explained.  She could have left a letter, contacted him at a later date when she was out of the country, or left instructions with Mycroft to make her great confession.  Sherlock knows he would have been quite irritated both with being lied to and that Molly took away his choice, but he would have understood and forgiven her.  He would have waited.

"I know," she replies to the ground.

"But now..."

"It's for the best," she says.  Keeping her back to the crumbling stone building, she shuffles away until Sherlock is no longer blocking his escape route.  "You have whatsherface.  It's better.  She's better.  She’s what you need."

This time when she makes to leave, Sherlock lets her go. 

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," she says, without turning around.  His name is a whisper on the wind and Molly disappears into the night.

* * *

 

In the morning he wakes before Molly.

Sober Molly functions on only a few hours of sleep a night, and it was not rare to wake alone or with her watching him, back in the day.  Now he watches her, watches the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the fluttering behind her eyelids.  In the morning light, she looks so sick.  What was bad last night is worse now.

Sherlock gives himself no more than five minutes to watch her face and weep a bit before sneaking from his bedroom with his mobile.

"Mycroft?"

"I was expecting this phone call hours ago, brother-mine."

"She was tired.  I was tired."

"I see."

"No," Sherlock says, voice getting a bit too loud.  "No, you do not _see_. It wasn't like that.  It was late, Mycroft.  That's all."

"And how is our wayward girl?"

Sherlock sinks, sitting on the sofa with his head hanging between his knees.  "She's so small, Mycroft.  Skinny and sick and—“

"Strung out," murmurs Mycroft.  "I believe stung out is the phrase you are searching for."

"She says she's done.  That she'll clean up."

On the other end of the line, there is silence. 

"Mycroft, I don't know what to do.  She's never tried to stop before.  Rehab, yes?  We've got to get her in rehab."

"Tell me exactly what she said."

So Sherlock explains the situation with Detective Inspector Morstan and Molly simple declaration to clean up in order to get involved in cases.

"Truly?" Mycroft asks.  "She truly said all that?"

"Yes, Mycroft.  I may be the stupid one, but I remember a conversation that took place a few hours ago. And I don’t honestly think that the DI was saying she’d give Molly cases if she cleans up, but that is Molly’s interpretation and I’m not going to argue with her about it. Not when she’s talking about stopping for the first time ever."

"I'm on my way, Sherlock.  Do try to hold it together until then."

* * *

 

"No," says Molly.  She shakes her head vigorously.  "No, absolutely not."

"You claim that you will stop this!" Mycroft yells.  Sherlock is unsure if he's ever heard his brother yell, but his voice is raised now and his face is red and splotchy with anger. He is pacing around the living room.  Molly is curled up on the sofa.  Sherlock retreated into the kitchen for tea, but really he simply watches Mycroft and Molly argue circles around each other. 

"This facility if the best there is," says Mycroft, yet again.  "If you truly desire to clean up, this is where you do it."

"No rehab!  How could you call him, Sherlock?"  She glares at him.  "I trusted you, came to you, and you call _him_? He wants to lock me up!"

"You did not come to him," snaps Mycroft, still stalking around.  "You were arrested and needed him to talk you out of trouble!  You lied to him, left him, pop in demanding something from him only when it is convenient for you!  No doubt you drove off his latest attempt to have a normal relationship, no matter how pathetic it might have been.  You are family and we will help you, Molly, but I will not tolerate this claim that you are somehow the betrayed party."

For a moment Molly turns redder than Mycroft, and Sherlock braces himself for a fresh round of even louder yelling, but then she lets out a breath, deflating like a popped balloon.  She pulls her knees to her chest.

"You must do this, Molly," Mycroft says.  "You must allow us to help you."

She says nothing and Mycroft retreats to the kitchen, nodding at Sherlock and silently tagging out.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and joins Molly on the couch.

"Mo," he murmurs, rubbing her back.  "You know we're right.  The withdrawal alone could kill you."

"I can't," she whines, turning her head to frown at him.  "I can't.  I'll be trapped there.  And they won't understand and I won't be able to explain and they'll think I'm crazy and they'll lock me up forever."

"You aren't crazy," Sherlock says with enough conviction to have Molly sitting up straight and dropping her feet to the floor.  "Right now you are sick and high.  Before all this you weren't crazy either, and you won't be after we get through it.  And really, do you think Mycroft would let them lock you up forever?"

She squints at Mycroft, tapping her chin as she considers.  He rolls his eyes.

"No," she finally says. "But I don't need rehab.  I just need to stay here with you, Sherlock.  I jut need to stay with you."

Looking at Molly’s earnest, pleading face will surely have Sherlock crumbling to any and everything she wants, so he looks at Mycroft instead with his tough love philosophy. His brother’s face is hard, but Sherlock is reasonably certain that there is something close to heartbreak in his eyes. This reassurance that Mycroft truly does care is the reason Sherlock listens when Mycroft simply shakes his head once.

“You can’t, Molly,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, but right now you just can’t. After you go through rehab, then you’ll have a place here if you want it. But not now.”

With hands on his cheeks, Molly forces Sherlock to look her in the eye. She studies his face intently and whatever she finds there makes her sigh, obviously resigned.

"Can you keep Toby?" she asks, hands dropping to her lap.

"What in god's name is a toby?" demands Mycroft.

"Of course," say Sherlock. He runs his thumbs over the dark shadows under her eyes. 

"Okay," she murmurs.  "Okay."

Mycroft immediately places a call.  Molly kisses Sherlock for a moment before excusing herself to use the toilet, to clean up a bit and pack a bag.

Five minutes stretch to ten and the Holmes brothers realize simultaneously that the flat is too silent.  In the bathroom they find only an open window and a message written on the mirror with pink lipstick.

_Forgive me._

* * *

 

"You've been awfully quiet," murmurs Tomi.  She kicks off her heels by the front door and hangs her coat on a hook.

Sherlock grunts in response as he makes for his violin.  At the last moment, he recalls his fiancé’s distaste for the instrument and he ends up standing aimless by the sofa, not sure what to do with himself. 

Molly's given him much to process and he does not know how to do this serious sort of contemplation without his violin.  It is not a question of believing her.  Although she's skilled in withholding the truth, there was no lie in Molly.  All she told him was not a careful manipulation but a verbal explosion, marked by her frustrations, fears, and disappointments. 

Molly loves him.  Molly has always loved him, even with her brief preoccupation with _The Woman_.  She's simply spent years at a loss for how to navigate back into a relationship when so much has changed since the last time they were together. 

Her words were confirmation of what Sherlock has spent years trying not to think.  Despite Mycroft's insistence that Sherlock must move on, despite Sherlock's own desperate attempts to do so, there has always been a part of him – hidden, perverse, disgracefully stubborn – that believed that eventually she would find her way back to him.

And she's been trying.  Since John came into her life, since after the incident immediately following Moriarty's first attempt on their lives.

The question is now, after all she's put him through, if Sherlock is really willing to spend the rest of his life tangled up with Molly. 

She is the complicated path, the one marked by moments of heartbreak and frustration and supreme, sublime joy.  For the rest of their lives she will wake him up at odd hours when she is hungry.  She will disappear for days on cases and he will worry.  She will forever be demanding body parts from his mortuary and – if on the off chance he ever manages to convince her to agree to such a thing – she will wear a hideous jumper to their wedding.

For the rest of their lives, Molly will smile at him and wipe tears from her eyes when he plays something particularly moving on his violin.  Dead bodies will be acceptable dinner conversation and Molly will be able to tell by just looking at him if it's been a particularly terrible day.  She will curl up next to him and stay silent if that's what he needs.  She'll drag him on ridiculous adventures if that is the remedy for his mood.

But when he thinks on the way she spoke to him before she disappeared for two years, he gets angry all over again.  His rage chokes him and although she explained her (stupid) behavior, it still hurt and he is not sure if Molly is worth the risk. 

Because it could most certainly happen again.

Either way, with or without Molly in his life as a romantic partner, this whole thing is horribly unfair to the woman he’s promised to marry.

"Tomi," he says, clearing his throat.  He's never before been forced to break it off like this before.  Molly usually does that for him.

Tomi sighs heavily, collapsing on the couch.  "I'd been hoping I was wrong."

"Pardon?" he asks, blinking down at her.

"Sit down, Sherlock."

It is a commanding tone he imagines she uses on the school children in her class.  She leaves no room for argument and Sherlock sits.

"Have you been shagging her, then?" she asks, studying the floral print of the fabric of her dress.

"What?" he asks, eyes narrowing.  "Absolutely not."

Tomi offers her dress a wan smile.  "Notice you didn't ask who I was talking about."

Again, Sherlock blinks at the woman who, only several months ago, he fully indented to spend the rests of his life with.

"My former girlfriend returns from the dead, breaks into my flat at all hours, and doesn't get along with you," Sherlock replies, shrugging.  "Wasn't much of a leap."

"When Molly left the wedding tonight, you followed her."  There is a quiver in her voice now and Sherlock feels the first twinges of guilt.

Admittedly, he should feel more than a twinge.

"I did."

"Why?"

"I was concerned for her.  With John married, she's scared of being alone."

"So you went to reassure her that she isn't alone?  Because she has you," Tomi says, head snapping up to glare at him.  Sherlock tries to keep from flinching.

He runs his hands through his hair and slumps back against the couch.  "I haven't been fair to you, Tomi.  Not since Molly came home."

Tomi sniffles.  "You've loved her this whole time, then?"

"It doesn't mean I didn't love you."

She closes her eyes and shakes your head.  "Don't know what I've been doing, these last long months.  I should have ditched you that first night, when she came for Toby.  It's so obvious.  I didn't really know you, still don’t.  Before, you weren't really you, I don't think.  Not until she came back."

"I don't follow."

"I thought I knew you before she came back but then here she was and how you changed!  I thought you were just naturally quiet and a bit sullen and serious.  But then she shows up and you’re laughing all over the place.  Seeing you two in the same space... if it weren't so depressing and disgusting I would find it very romantic.  It's as if you’re both more comfortable when you occupy the same space."

Sherlock genuinely has no reply for this accusation.

"In a world without Molly Hooper, would there be a shot for us?" she whispers.

It is not even a scenario Sherlock needs to imagine.  For two years he lived in a world without Molly Hooper.  Tomi made the whole thing bearable.

"Of course, Tomi.  I really am so sorry."

Tomi makes a pained sound and cries a bit more.  She gratefully accepts Sherlock's handkerchief. 

"Well," she says, clapping her hands and steeling her resolve.  She attempts her typical bright smile but can't quite manage it.  "Best to just pack up what little I have now.  Don't want to have to come back, drag the whole thing out."

The whole of Tomi's possessions kept in his flat fit in a pair of reusable grocery bags.  This sight more than anything seems to change Tomi's resigned sadness to anger.

"It's going to be so easy," she mutters, scowling down at her packed bags.  "For you to erase me from your life."

"Tomi, that was never what I wanted."

"Don't you say it, Sherlock Holmes.  I am not capable of merely being your _friend_ so don't you even say it."

Sherlock nods and is suddenly beyond exhausted.

"It makes sense now, why you were so hesitant to make any sort of wedding plans.  I commend you on your foresight."

"Tomi—“

"No, no.  I won't be bitter.  I would rather end this on a positive note.  I'd rather you remember me happy and bright and how I normally am."

That brightness and happiness really was good for him, grumpy git that he is.

"Of course I will," he murmurs, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  He is somewhat surprised to find himself still wearing the suit he wore to the wedding.  He is somewhat surprised to realize that the wedding was only several hours ago.

All and all, it's been a very long, trying day.

"And I shall remember the best of you," she says, turning to look at him. 

There are tears in her eyes once more and Sherlock will have to live with the knowledge that he's done this to her, convinced her that she would have a loving, devoted companionship for the remainder of her years before abruptly taking it all away.

"So smart and witty," she murmurs, reaction up to cradle his jaw and run her thumb over his cheekbone.

He carries her bags to the curb and waits with her for the taxi.  Before entering, Tomi gives him one more lingering kiss.

"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes," she says.

"Good bye," he replies.

Watching the rear lights of the cab disappear around the corner brings him nothing but relief.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone around here on Tumblr? I've got one of those. Come say hi!
> 
> jaxington.tumblr.com


	11. Her Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years and two hospital stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My readers are absolutely perfect. Thank you.
> 
> And big thanks to Monica too for being a perfect beta.
> 
> I've gotten quite a few questions on if I will continue this story passed His Last Vow and as of now its a tentative yes, although I'm not sure how far I will go. Right now I have a couple chapters planned but we shall see. My plans are nearly always broken.
> 
> Tumblr! I have one! jaxington.tumblr.com.

“So all the paperwork’s signed and assuming the birth mother has no change of heart, which apparently does happen, so must at least try to mentally prepare for that possibility, but as of now, yes.” Greg pauses to take a deep breath. Beside him John smiles at his husband adoringly, taking his hand. “We are to be parents.”

Mary squeals, lurching to her feet to lean across the table to hug Greg and then John. She narrow avoids knocking over several glasses of wine and her own coke.

Sherlock’s reaction to this most shocking of news is more subdued, but he is no less happy for their friends. He is happy. Happy like he is for Mary and Mycroft and everyone else who has somehow managed to find someone, to start a family.

Sherlock is obviously incapable.

“Congratulations, future fathers,” Sherlock says, shaking both their hands and managing a genuine smile. “Although you certainly are cutting the newlywed stage short. One month in and already you are expanding your numbers.”

“Well,” says John, scratching the back of his head. “Turns out we’ve been discussing this for quite a bit longer than we’ve actually been married. And we are not getting any younger.”

“So when are you due?” Mary says bouncing in her chair slightly. It is their usual table at Angelo’s, by the windows, but tonight there is a fifth chair that sits empty. Sherlock wonders if Mary feels Mycroft’s absence as acutely as Sherlock feels Molly’s. Perhaps not. When he asked the DI about her relationship with his brother she simply replied “we are together when we are together, Sherlock. Don’t fret. It works. For both of us.” Mycroft’s explanation was equally as vague.

“End of February,” replies Greg, swirling his wine and looking oddly bashful.

“I’m the beginning of February!” says Mary. “This is absolutely wonderful. We can figure it all out together. I don’t know about you two, but we have no idea what we’re doing. Although Mycroft essentially raised this one,” Sherlock is patted on the head, “and Molly, infants are a different matter entirely. We are going to need all the help we can get.”

Mary and Greg progress to detail the extent to which they have no idea what they’re doing. Sherlock takes the opportunity to lean across the table to speak with John.

“How did Molly take the news?” Sherlock asks.

John goes from looks incandescently happy to rather irritated. He glances at the empty chair and Sherlock regrets asking.

“This is the third time I’ve tried to tell her,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the third time she did not show. Have you seen her?”

“Not since the wedding.”

“Yes, me neither. Not since the wedding.”

Mary deftly changes the subject and Sherlock fully commits to celebrating the new additions that will be coming into his life sooner rather than later.

* * *

 

"This really isn't necessary," Molly mutters as they await the results of her urinary analysis. When John and Greg appeared with a obviously high Molly in tow, Sherlock forced some lab underling to run the test, for he could not manage it himself, with his shaking hands. The obviously uncomfortable intern is busy at work now, glancing at them all every few moments as if the lot of them are mad.

Which is probably a reasonable guess.

Shoving aside a stack of his recently organized paperwork, Molly lifts herself onto the counter and crosses her legs.  It is bizarre to see her in such attire, baggy jeans, knit hat that tightly fits her head, long sleeved black shirt that is tied up at the hem to show off her midriff, but still serves the purpose of covering the marks Sherlock is positive are blemishing her arms. 

"I'm fine," she insists.

"Need I remind you that I just pulled you from a drug den?" John says, sputtering.

Across the room, Greg bandages the wrist of a junky called Bill Wiggins.  He shakes his head and looks much calmer than his husband.  John is obviously out of his element, pacing and squeaking.  Although he's heard of Molly at her worst, seeing is a different matter entirely.

Sherlock silently awaits the results he does not need to convince him that, for the first time in nearly a decade, Molly's poisoned herself with narcotics.  He watches her pull at the sleeves of her shirt and his rage mounts.  Scowling at her, terrified for her, he sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his lab coat and waits.

It's been over a month since he's seen her, since the wedding and the end of his engagement.  He's considered seeking her out countless times since, to yell at her some more, to beg her to be with him, to fuck her until she's incapable of standing and he feels better. 

Wracked with indecision on his desires for the future and unable to know if he'll ever be able to trust her with his heart again, he's done none of these things.

Molly's been avoiding him as well.  He's not seen her at Bart’s once, although he's found evidence of her experiments.  She's not used his apartment as a bolt-hole or fallen asleep on his couch after telling him all about a case.

Normally after a few days without hearing from her, he'd pop into Baker Street with take away under the pretense of feeding her, but truly because he misses her, because he sometimes fears that she'll disappear once more.

The avoidance has certainly been mutual.

Along with the anger and the fear, Sherlock absolutely drowns in guilt.  At the wedding, Molly essentially declared her undying love for him, or at least came as close as she is capable.  He did nothing but remind her of every way she's wronged him in the past.  It couldn't have been easy for her to admit such feelings, but he did nothing in return.

Except break up with his fiancé.

But she's probably unaware of that fact.

Or maybe she knows.  Difficult to say with Molly.

"Oh, look at Sherlock's face!" she says, crawling across the counter until she's right next to Sherlock, leaving only a few precious inches of space between them.  He turns to look at her with contempt.  "He's blaming himself.  As if there is anything you could possibly do to affect me so much as to drive me to drugs!"

She cackles, surprising all in the room with the cruelty of the sound but Sherlock.

It is familiar and all the proof he needs to determine Molly's sobriety.

"As if you have any sway over my mood," she continues to mock him.  "As if anything you could do would make me feel anything at all."

Molly is not nearly as good at lying about this as she once was, but her words still serve to support every reason he has that keeps him from committing to a relationship with her again.

"I didn't do this because of you," she says, feeling compelled to fill the silence.  "It's for a case, Sherlock.  That's all."

He says nothing.

"Your engagement did not drive me to drugs!" she insists. “I know that's what you are thinking right this minute, Sherlock Holmes.  Is it possible to be more conceited? More self-involved?  You giant bloody wanker."

"Definitely not clean," murmurs Sherlock.

"Did the results come back?" asks John.

“Um, yes,” squeaks the intern, handing over a folder and then immediately fleeing the scene.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock opens the file and checks.  The science corroborates what he already knew.

Molly is high.

"Definitely not clean," he says again.

"Don't look so heartbroken, Sherlock," she says, rolling her eyes.  "It's for a case."

"How is that at all relevant!" he snaps, allowing her to finally pierce his silently disapproving demeanor.

"Because I'm simply doing what's necessary. It's not like I want it for myself."

"Bollocks."

"Sherlock—“

"How dare you," he whispers. He feels dangerous and Molly's eyes go wide as he looms over her, bearing down on her with bared teeth.  He's never been particularly violent but now his hands grip the counter at either side of her legs to keep from shaking her and shoving her.  "How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with. How dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you are sorry." His voice is low, icy.

"I'm so sorry," she says, rolling her eyes, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Are you?"

"I'm terribly sorry your engagement's ended.  I see you are back to ironing your own shirts.  Tomara was crap with an iron.  Does it shame you, to have been left by such a daft bint?"  Molly's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as she slides towards him on the counter.  Her small, capable hands deliberately wrinkle his perfectly ironed button up shirt.

"Do not push me," he says, making no move to put distance between them.

She is so warm – alive, living, breathing – and he is so angry.

Molly's hands travel from the ruined fabric at his chest to the collar of his shirt.  She wrinkles that too and pulls him a bit closer.  "Or what, Sherlock?  What will happen, I wonder, if a newly single, delightfully angry, totally disappointed, and completely terrified Sherlock Holmes is _pushed_?"

He stares at her lips.

She correctly identifies the vastly different emotions raging in him, but he could bite her bottom lip to make her truly understand his anger.  He could suck a bruise onto her collarbone and pound into her so she would really know his guilt.  He could hug her close to release his fear and gently touch her to make amends for avoiding her for the last month.

Even if she relapsed with the excuse of a case, it was his fault for not being there to talk her out of it.

"Shall we experiment?"  Molly tugs his face a bit closer and ignoring the bags under her eyes is impossible.  She is in dire need of a shower and a support meeting, not a quick shag in Sherlock's place of work in the middle of the day.

"Oi!" says John, making Sherlock jump and blush.  He attempts to pulls away, but Molly won't let go.  Her hands still hold his collar and her legs are a vice around his waist.  All he can do is look away.

"You are such a hopeless prude, John," says Molly.

From across the room, Greg laughs.  The sound is jovial and in direct contrast with everything Sherlock feels in this moment.

"I didn't know Sheeza likes blokes," mutters Bill Wiggins, cradling his bandaged wrist to his chest.

"Who's Sheeza?" asks Greg.

"I was undercover!" says Molly. 

Finally, she releases Sherlock and he makes a hasty retreat.  He ends up huddled next to Greg, who looks both shocked and positively tickled by Molly's seemingly out of character behavior.

"But Sheeza though?"  asks Greg.  "Really?  _Sheeza_?"

John is moving in now, shaking off his shock to confront High Molly. “If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me,” he says, voice low and pleading.

Molly rolls her eyes. “Please just relax. This is all for a case.”

“A case?” John is sputtering again and Molly slides off the counter top to stand before him. “What kind of case would have you doing this?”

“We might as well talk about why you’ve started cycling to work,” she says in lieu of reply.

“No,” says John, shaking his head and retreating back to Greg. “We are not playing this game.”

Sherlock loses track of the deductions that Molly sucks John into, running his hands through his hair and trying to keep from completely losing it. There is a lull in the completely irrelevant conversation and Sherlock speaks.

“You will stop this,” he says. “Right now.”

Molly glares and opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by her own phone.  She pulls it from her pocket and starts grinning like a loon.

“Finally!” she says. “Oh, excellent news. The very best. There is every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on!”

Sherlock can’t even look at her but he does manage to send of a text to Mycroft.

* * *

 

After she slips out of the bathroom window to avoid rehab, Mycroft sets his goons on Molly watch and Sherlock can’t bring himself to clean her message of _Forgive Me_ from his mirror. 

Instead he picks up an extra shift, using cadavers as distractions and pretending he doesn't see Molly on his table – skinny, strung out, dead – every few minutes.  He cannot bring himself to eat and Mike Stamford asks "everything okay, mate?" no less than three times in a single morning.

In the afternoon, a little over a day since she fled his flat, Molly finds him in the lab.

"Morphine," she says, her whole body shaking.  Sherlock watches as she wraps her arms tightly around herself, attempting to hold herself to together.

"What?"  He reaches out to steady her with hands on her shoulders.

"I need you to get me morphine.  Where is it?  Where do you keep it?"  She pulls away to start rummaging through random cabinets.

"Molly, stop!  You can't be in here. I can't get you morphine."

"Just a bit."  She whirls on him, eyes wild and desperate.  Her hands fist in the fabric of his crisp white lab coat.  "Just to stop the— Oh, God."

Falling to her knees, Molly barely makes it to a trash bin.  As she continues to hurl, Sherlock crouches near her, pulling back her hair.  He wants to rub her back, but he imagines her skin is crawling at this point and he will not make it worse.

"Please, Sherlock."

"This could kill you, Molly," he replies.  "The stress of it.  In the facility they—“

"I said no!" she snaps.  "How stupid are you, that one simple word has lost all meaning?  Your ineptitude's always annoyed me but you've turned into a total idiot.  Now get me some fucking morphine!"

Sherlock struggles against a wholly unproductive urge to weep.

"We can't do it here," he says, getting to his feet.  Molly uses the legs of his trousers to pull herself up.  "Come on."

He stores her in an on call room and instead of sneaking her morphine, he calls Mycroft. 

* * *

 

Molly glares at Sherlock as she's never glared before.  He worries that he made a very serious mistake lying to her, promising her morphine, and calling his brother instead. 

Despite her current state, Molly remains stubbornly against rehab and the chances of her coming to him again when she needs help after he called in Mycroft twice is slim.  She'll disappear again, and this time she'll succeed in killing herself.

And still, Molly says no.  It is a firm no, and Sherlock doesn't understand her reasoning, her fear.

"This is it," Mycroft says, leaning back against the door after nearly an hour of talking in circles.  Molly is curled up on one of the bunks, shivering and sweating.  "I cannot live like this anymore.  The worry for you is constant and if you will not accept my help I will have no choice but to cease any contact with you."

"What?" demands Sherlock.

"Last chance, Molly,” continues Mycroft.  “Let us help you."

She stays shivering for a moment before getting up.  Mycroft steps aside and Molly slips out through the door, leaning heavily on a wall to keep her upright. 

"What the fuck, Mycroft!" Sherlock hisses.  He wants to punch out all his rage and fear on his brother's face.  "You know very well she'll go get high now!  Or manage to steal drugs from the hospital.  She's going to die and you let her go!"

Mycroft sighs.  "I can't force her into a facility."

"Bloody well you can!  You are essentially the British Government!”

"That is not wholly accurate," he says, rubbing his temples with his fingers.  "And if she does not accept help I cannot force it on her."

"But—“

"There is nothing left to be done."

"She'll die!"

"Then it is her own choice."

"And you are prepared to let it happen?"

Mycroft shrugs.

And Sherlock really does punch his brother.

* * *

 

"Sherlock."

He had pulled up a chair to her bed and dozed at some point around dawn with his head on her mattress, holding her hand.  Across the room, Mycroft is curled up in his own chair, snoring softly and cuddling his umbrella, expensive suit rumpled.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes and sits up to get a good look at her in the dimly lit hospital room. There is little color in her cheeks and Sherlock shudders as he thinks of just how close she was to death just several hours ago.  This is not the first time she woke, but he missed it somehow.  Only Greg spoke with her before she succumbed to a morphine induced sleep.

"Hi, Mo," he murmurs, pushing her hair off her forehead.

"Water?"

He holds a cup to her mouth as she takes a few sips through a straw.  When she's done drinking, she settles back against her pillows and closes her eyes.

"I'm not dead," she whispers.

Sherlock lets out a quick snort of laughter and a few tears fall. This is the second time he’s found himself at her bedside in the hospital, amazed to find her living, breathing. The first was a drug overdose years ago, and this time she’s been shot.

Someone _shot_ her.

"Come here," she says.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hunching over until his forehead rests on hers.  Molly sighs and smiles as Sherlock's hand finds her chest.

"It still beats," she slurs, words made heavy by morphine.  Her addiction is something the he will worry about later.  "My heart still beats, Sherlock.  Your doing."

"Mine?" he asks, lifting his head to frown down at her.

She gives him a dreamy smile and opens her eyes.  "Yes, yes.  You were all over my Mind Palace, calming me.  Telling me which way to fall and ordering me to live.  Thank you."

For lack of knowing what to say, Sherlock kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her bottom lip.

Molly lets out a stoned little giggle.  "Get in the bed."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Don't want to jostle you, Molly.  You were shot."

Wincing right through his protests, she shifts over to make room for him next to her.  She really is such a slight creature and this recovery from the blood loss alone is staggering.

Avoiding her drip, he stretches out next to her.  She leans her head against his shoulder and laces their hands together, moving them to rest against her beating heart.

Eyes closed again, Sherlock thinks he might be able to join her in sleep, now that the comforting proof of her continued life beats rhythmically against his hand.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She is fighting sleep, all her words blending together.

"Tell you what?"

"That you'd ended your engagement?"

His guts seem to twist.  It's not often Molly shows such vulnerability, but he's been duped before.

"Still angry with the way you left, I supposed," he replies, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. 

"Didn’t I explain all that away?" she asks, forcing her eyes open to glare at him.  It is about as threatening as a newborn kitten and Sherlock loves her.  He really does.

"You explained, yes," he says.  "But it didn't go away."

"Oh."

"We don't need to talk about this now."

"But we can?"  She is dozing again.  "Eventually?"

Sherlock chuckles and this time it doesn't lead to tears.  "You want to talk?  About sentiment?"

"Sherlock.  Promise."

"I promise."

"I love you.  You know that, right?"

He does.  She loves him as much as she can, but he's still not entirely certain it will be enough.

* * *

Two days after Molly disappears from Bart’s without her morphine and without going to rehab, he gets the call.  It wakes him from wine-induced slumber.

"Come to Bart’s," says Mycroft.  "It's Molly."

"Is she..." He can't form the words and he sees her laid out on his table, dead under his knife.

"No.  Overdose.  They've managed to restart her heart.  She's awake."

* * *

 

Detective Inspector Morstan smiles at Mycroft as he delivers her a paper cup.  She blows on the hot liquid inside and Mycroft's ears turn pink.  Sherlock pauses at the end of the hallway for a moment to gape at them.  Perhaps if his heart wasn't beating _Molly, Molly, Molly_ , then he would be capable of understanding why anyone would smile at Mycroft and why said smile would causes his ears to turn red.

"Well?" he says, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat when he reaches the pair.  ”Where is she?"

DI Morstan nods at the door but steps in front of it when Sherlock moves to enter the room. "Easy there, tiger."

"Allow us to explain before you start shouting at the DI, please," says Mycroft with a typical long-suffering sigh.  "And you look positively ghastly.  What did you do, drink a liquor store?"

"Listen," says Morstan before Sherlock can reply with something scathing and mean.  "I've given her a choice, rehab or prison.  And she's chosen correctly."

"You gave her the choice?  Isn't this sort of thing left to judges?"

Morstan sips her tea and shrugs.

"I'm not sure this is strictly legal,” Sherlock murmurs. “Or moral."

"Eh," Morstan says.  "We do what we can.  I've got a good feeling about your girl in there.  Don't want to lock her up, don't think that will do anyone any good.  Plus, it helps when the higher ups arrange the whole thing." 

She waggles her eyebrows at Mycroft and he drops his gaze to his shoes.

"This was your plan all along?" Sherlock demands.  "Let her overdose?  Catch her at it and force her into rehab?"

"Of course," Mycroft says as if it should all be rather obvious.  It is a tone Molly uses often too.  To the pair of them, with their brains like computers, perhaps it is obvious, but Sherlock has spent the better part of two days convinced that Molly would die and that he'd be powerless to stop it.  "Couldn't tell you the details, brother-mine.  You'd hardly approve of the risk here."

"I should punch you again," Sherlock mutters.

Morstan laughs and Mycroft rubs his jaw.

"Wouldn't you rather see her?" asks Mycroft.

Morstan steps aside this time when Sherlock makes for the door.

Molly's eyes are on him to moment he closes the door at his back.  She stares at his forehead, a trick she picked up long ago to fake eye contact.  He wonders if she is even aware she does it.

Her dark eyes are glassy with whatever they are pumping into her after her overdose, keeping her calm and alive until she's well enough to be transferred. There is a chair in the corner and he takes a seat, hanging his head between his knees.

"I'm not dead," she croaks out.

Sherlock snorts.  "Not for lack of trying."

"I wasn't trying.  I just... wasn't not trying."

"Molly."

"Will you stop pouting all the way over there in the corner?" she asks, sighing.

He sits straight in his chair and pulls off his scarf, wrapping it around the arm.  "What would you have me do?"

"Just come here."

He stays seated.

"Please, Sherlock?  Just come here."

And because he is as weak and pathetic as Molly's always accused him of being, he rises and sheds his coat, draping it over the back of the chair.  When he's close enough, Molly captures his hand and tugs with meager strength until he stops fighting her and joins her on the bed.  She makes room for him and he stretches out.

"Mycroft nearly got me arrested, you know," she says, surprisingly bitter for someone so out of it.

"Mycroft is saving your life."

"He shouldn't have to."

"True."

"And why is he?  My real flesh and blood family never liked me at all.  Why does Mycroft?  Why do you?"

"They were wrong, Mo.  We're your family.  We chose you and we love you."

Molly laughs.  The sound is sad.  "Bet you're regretting that about now."

"I'm not.  I never would."

"I won't do this to you again.  I won't."

He kisses her forehead.  Molly presses her cheek into his shoulder and lets him lace their fingers together.

* * *

 

"Is that coffee for me?" she asks with no real hope as he enters her hospital room.  Yesterday he worked a shift – checking on her obsessively – went home, showered, and then returned as quickly as possible.

"Where is John?  Or Mary?  Or Mycroft?" he snaps, scowling around at the empty room. “Need I remind you that your shooter is still at large?”

"Really, Sherlock," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm fine.  There is no need for a bodyguard.  Mary was here half an hour ago but pregnancy has made her so loud."

"Loud?"

"She was thinking so loud.  So I sent her off."

"I don't like you here alone.  Someone shot you, Molly.  Someone's tried to kill you."

Again, Molly rolls her eyes.  Sherlock chugs the remainder of the coffee before tossing the paper cup in the rubbish bin and removing his coat.  He drapes it over the back of a chair before sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Hello," she says, grinning as she sits up to run her fingers through his hair.  The ease with which she moves is suspect and Sherlock checks her morphine.

"I've been shot," she reminds him.  "Turn it down a bit, if it makes you feel better."

He does so and with that task complete Molly tugs him closer.  Her strength is lacking, but he goes willingly, returning her grin

"Sherlock," she says, looking at everything but him as she fiddles with his hair.  "Darling?"

"Yes, Molly?"  The endearment is suspect and he braces himself.

"Have you had a chance to get a look at the papers today?" she asks.

He catches sight of a stack of papers on a table on the far side of her bed.  She quickly covers them with a spare pillow.

"No," he replies slowly.  Later after he gets a bit of rest and his eyes no longer feel so gritty, he'll read all the papers until he finds whatever Molly does not want him to see.  "I haven't even slept."

"You should really sleep, Sherlock," she chastises.  Her fingers are in his hair and Sherlock sighs.  "And also, as I attempted to say the other day before I fell into a drug induced slumber, I think we should go back."

"Go back?"

"To how we were before."

"Before?"

"Before my father died and I..."  Brow furrowed, she searches for the correct word.  "Changed."

Sherlock snorts.  "Before you stopped caring for me?"

"Tried to stop," Molly corrects.

"Before you nearly killed yourself and disappeared?  Before you became my friend and made me believe that friendship is all we would have and then fucked me after John nearly got blown up and then didn't speak to me for months?"

Molly winces.

"Before your affair with The _Woman_?"

"It was one time, Sherlock.  I’d hardly call that an affair.  It was one time and that was all it took for me to understand that she is really not all that interesting under all that beauty and danger.  One time and I was stunned by your superiority in every way."

Sherlock glares at her while Molly stares at her hands in her lap.  "She _was_ really not that interesting.  Past tense.  The Woman is dead."

"Right.  Right.  Do continue listing all the ways I've done you wrong.  I was quite enjoying that."

Ignoring her eye rolling and sarcasm, he presses on, detailing just how it felt to be told once again that she didn't want him after they faked her suicide.

"Do you expect me to just forget all that?" he murmurs, exhausted in every way imaginable.

"No?" she ventures, clearing recognizing that this is the right answer but not understanding why.

"You want to be with me now," he explains.  "That's lovely, but I cannot live with the possibility of you changing your mind.  Some threat will emerge and you'll hurt me to protect me again.  Or some shiny, new, fascinating person will catch your attention and you'll set me aside once more."

"Not true," she says simply.  "I've learned my lesson.  There will be no more threats of such magnitude.  I'm tired of putting the ones I love in danger.  I will seek out no more Moriarty-type figures.  Just one more big case and then back to my bread and butter, back to helping people who need it."

"One last big case?" he asks. "The same one that got you back on drugs and shot?"

"You'll need to just trust me. This is of great import."  She sits up in bed, wincing as she clutches at his wrists.  Those deep brown eyes of hers plead for his understanding.  "It's for John.  And Lestrade.  And you. To keep you safe and happy.  To keep everyone safe and happy.  Please, just trust me on this.  It needs to be done.  But I won’t hurt you to protect you.  Not again.  Lesson learned."

With her words - the right words, words he's longed to hear - Sherlock feels his resolve to protect himself from Molly crumble and it is somewhat terrifying.  There is danger in being with Molly and not just the threat from her work but also the prospect of her changing her mind. 

But he wants to believe her.

Her grip on his wrists gets a bit firmer and Sherlock looks up, somewhat surprised to see her looking right at him with such intensity.

"There is no one else," she insists with so much conviction that it is impossible to doubt her sincerity.  Despite all her flaws and the way she skillfully works around the truth, it is not often that Molly lies so blatantly, so Sherlock believes her.  "There will not be anyone else.  If Irene Adler, The Woman herself, falls laughably short in comparison with you, then all others will as well." 

"I am comfortable and safe to you.  That's all.  And I'm no longer sure it is enough to build a life upon."

Molly throws back her head and laughs before the pain in her wound has her grimacing.

"What?" he asks.

"Comfortable?  Really?  You demand things of me and expect things of me and push me into being a better person. There has never been a bigger threat to my work-focused, emotionless doctrine of living than you.  And I'm so bloody thankful for it.  I finally know what you mean by balance, now. Loving you but remaining more detached from the work. I can do it."

She's successfully altered his view on their relationship and Sherlock can do nothing but gape.

"It was always supposed to be like this, you and me," she whispers, "I'm not scared anymore."

Breathing gets difficult.  Molly can't maintain eye contact any longer and stares resolutely at his chest.

"You were scared?" he whispers.

"Oh yes.  After George died, I imagined how it would be if I lost you too.  Seemed easier to stop caring than to face that."

"Molly."

"I know."  She chuckles.  "I don't even recognize myself right now.  Do not expect me to spout such repulsive sentiment again.  But it is all true.  I love you, Sherlock.  I do."

"You love me."  He still does not quite believe it, but it certainly rings truer than it did several nights ago with her words slurred together.

"It's so painfully embarrassing.  And ordinary.  In this I am ordinary," she mutters, hiding her face in her hands.

Sherlock laughs.  "You love me."

"Stop saying it!"

"You are in love with me.  You'd gladly spend the rest of your days at my side."

"I might not have many more.  I'm about to die from disgust and embarrassment."

"Come here," he says, laughing as he attempts to peel her hands from her face.

"No. Let me die in peace."

"Molly.  You are bedridden with a gunshot wound.  Let's refrain from discussing your death."

Sighing heavily, she allows him to remove her hands from her face.  She laces their fingers together and glances up at him, shy and hopeful and earnest.

"So, you agree then?  We'll take up the great experiment again and you'll be with me?"

How could he possibly resist when she looks him in the eye, when she is more open than he thought her capable of being.

He pushes her shoulder until she's lying back against her pillows and settles at her side, propping his head up on his elbow to better watch her face.

"We need to get you sober," he murmurs, forcing him self to be serious despite his joy and giddiness.  "No more drugs, Molly, no matter the excuse.  If you do this to me again, that's it.  Experiment over."

"Harsh but fair," Molly says, nodding.

"And we do this slowly."

"Slowly?"

"Dates.  We go on dates and do not rush to get back to where we were."

"You need to trust me again."

"I do."

"I would rather you simply move into Baker Street right now.  Or when I've concluded this case."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Why Baker Street?  I like my flat."

Molly shakes her head with too much vigor, her hand coming up to rest over her wound when she stills.  "Too many bad memories.  George.  Drugs.  Hating you because you made it so hard not to care.  Baker Street is better."

"This is irrelevant.  I'm not moving in."

"But, Sherlock—“

"No."

"Fine!" she snaps.  "Will you at least snog me a bit?  Help me forget that I've allowed you to turn my morphine down to comically low levels?"

He rests a hand against her chest, thumb stroking her collarbone.  Molly beams at him, her eyes fluttering closed as his fingers trail up the column of her throat to cradle her jaw.  When he kisses her, it is slow and tender. 

Molly smiles against his lips before opening her mouth and it reminds Sherlock that there can be great joy here. 

It's been nearly a decade since they've shared such lazy kisses simply for the sake of kissing.  The harsh kisses they shared at John's wedding were born of anger and frustration while those after her fall were desperate and life affirming.  In the months after her father's death there was no kissing at all.  Molly wouldn't allow it.

Kissing her slowly, happily, gently reminds him of their youth, how thrilled and shocked he was that Molly was not only allowing this, but enjoying it.

Beneath him, Molly sighs and tangles her fingers in his hair.  Although Sherlock is unwilling to blindly go back to how they once were, he is pleased that some things remain, Molly's preoccupation with his hair being one of them.

"Sherlock?" she murmurs against his lips.

"Molly?"  He grazes her ear with his teeth, making her giggle.

"I think we should spend every spare second kissing."

He grins and kisses her again.  "Yeah?"

"Remember when you were forced to bribe me into studying by withholding your lips?"

He chuckles and moves said lips to her jaw.  "Yes."

"I anticipate such drastic measures being necessary in the future," she says.  "You'll have to bribe me to eat.  And sleep."

"You give me too much credit.  I'm not that strong."

He finds her lips once more, kissing the grin right off them.  He'd very much like to continue just like this indefinitely, and he can feel the hope in her as well that this will last, that Molly will find the balance between emotion and logic, between detaching herself to make her work possible and coming home after a case, comfortable in how much she cares.

Molly's tongue moves against his and there is no looming, dangerous case.  Molly's fingernails scrape his scalp and there is no drug addiction or cruel words spat at him to ensure he stay away.  There is simply Sherlock and Molly, as they've been since they were ten years old, together for a quarter of a century.

"Oh, this is just perfect."

It is akin to being awoken from a very good dream and he lifts his head, more focused on Molly's little sound of distress than the fact that there is an Irish stranger is in the room.

Sherlock moves to stand at the side of the bed, frowning at the dark haired woman standing by the door, newspapers clutched in her hands.

"Oh, bugger," Molly says, sighing.

"Can we help you?" asks Sherlock, hands deep in her pockets.

The woman appraises him from head to foot.  Her smile is not friendly and Sherlock's rather positive he knows her from somewhere.

"Waiting for marriage?" she asks, smirking at Molly.

"That, like everything else, was a lie," replies Molly.  She sits up a little straighter, wincing all the while.

“Do you even _like_ women?” snaps the person in the doorway.

“Well, yes,” Molly admits, fidgeting. “Just not as much as I like Sherlock.”

"I know you," says the stranger, turning to him now.  "You were at the wedding."

"Ah," says Sherlock.  "Yes, you're Greg's friend."

"Janine," says the woman.

"Sherlock," says Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"  Molly says, smiling up at him and tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. "Darling?  Can you step out for a moment?  Give us a spot of privacy?"

He seriously considers telling her no and suddenly glaring at Molly seems to be the proper course of action rather than glaring at Greg's friend Janine.

"He's not in on it then?" asks Janine, shaking her head.  "How'd you manage that?  With all the sleepovers and dates?  How'd you keep him in the dark?"

"One last big case," Molly whispers, fingers still curled into his shirt, looking at him only.

Sherlock nods and makes for the door.  Janine blocks his path at the last moment, pushing the stack of papers into his chest.

* * *

 

When Janine emerges from Molly's room ten minutes later, he's read enough to understand what Molly's been doing the last month besides heroin.  She wooed Greg's friend, dated her, made her think they had a future together, and then proposed, but to what purpose the papers do not adequately say.

Obviously, the whole thing was for a case, this last big case. It was too far, even for Molly.  Sherlock wasn't there to talk her down, to reminder her of her humanity.

"You didn't know," says Janine.

"No."

"Would you have stopped it, if you did?"

"I would have tried and then let it go on if Molly insisted it was necessary," he admits after taking a moment to consider.

Janine nods like she's grateful for his honesty.

"Molly does a lot of good," Sherlock says.  "Despite her sometimes destructive methods.”

"She's a cruel junkie.  She always was and will always be a cruel junkie"

Sherlock gives her back the papers.

* * *

 

"You certainly took your time," says Mrs. Hudson.  She yanks the pillow from Sherlock’s hands with uncharacteristic anger.  "I sent you upstairs.  Not to Timbuktu."

"He's quite cross with me," Molly says, gritting her teeth as Mrs. Hudson adjusts the bedding beneath her.

"Oh?" says the landlady, helping Molly settle against the newly delivered pillow. "Surely whatever you did can be forgiven in light of your recent brushes with death."

"I am not cross," says Sherlock.

"You read the papers," says Molly.  "He's angry about what I did to Janine."

"That was a bit cruel, Molly.  She is such a lovely girl."

"And that I left the hospital for a case," Molly replies.

"You nearly died!" says Sherlock.  "Again. And you won’t even explain why you felt the need to flee, running about London, totally compromising your incision and your still damaged innards."

"See?" says Molly.  Her eyes fluttering closed. "Quite cross."

"Do you need anything, Molly?" asks Mrs. Hudson, smoothing out the blanket over Molly's legs.  "Anything more?  I'm sure Sherlock would be happy to get you more pillows."

"No, no.  I think I'd like to just sleep."

"Alright.  I'll be up with your supper and your evening medication."

It's not nearly strong enough, Molly's evening medication, but after suffering through more internal damage caused by her decision to leave hospital before she could properly heal, and then the withdrawals that followed as they worked her off morphine, it is all she can take.

As much of a relief as it is to have Molly detoxed and clean, seeing her in pain brings him pain also.

Mrs. Hudson bops off, leaving Sherlock to awkwardly loiter by her bed.  Now that he's delivered her to Baker Street from Bart's, he's unsure about his role here.  He should go home – in the last weeks he's spent very little time here – but he hesitates.

"Will you stay?" Molly murmurs, her eyes fluttering closed.  "I know you are angry, but you should still stay."

Sherlock stays.


	12. Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get better, and then, abruptly worse.

It takes Sherlock far longer than it should to come to the somewhat shocking realization that Molly is courting him.

When she's recovered sufficiently to terrorize Mrs. Hudson but is still too weak to be running about the city in pursuit of criminals, Sherlock brings her with him to the lab, settling her in front of her favorite microscope and checking on her often throughout the day. 

When he greets her in the lab, she kisses his cheek.  When he exits the lab, she also kisses his cheek. The behavior is bizarre and she very deliberately acknowledges his presence and then says goodbye when he leaves.  It is a shock, compared to her usual single-minded dedication to her work.

Sherlock wonders if he has become her latest case. _The Case of the Stubborn Former (Perhaps Current) Boyfriend who Refused to Move In._ A perfect entry for John’s blog, no doubt.

He is wary, as she has not relented in her campaign to get him to move into Baker Street, but he decides to enjoy the attention, nonetheless.

Molly heals a bit more and picks up some more basic cases – actual, non-Sherlock case – but her behavior continues.  She follows Morstan around and even goes as far to bring Sherlock lunch – real lunch, fish and chips rather than just crisps – several times a week.  Despite needing to take a look at a body, Molly insists they eat first in Sherlock's office, much to the irritation of the poor DI.

On a particularly dreary day in mid October, Molly appears in the mortuary with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Sherlock is clutching a bowl of brains and he nearly drops what's left of poor Louisa at the strange sight.

"These are for you," she says in a rush, thrusting the flowers and chocolates in his general direction.  Her eyes are locked on her shoes and her cheeks are red.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asks, completely confused and gaping.

"I got you these."  She sets them down on an empty autopsy table and then immediately flees.  Sherlock wonders briefly if she's picked up her drug habit once more, but such a nice – although admittedly weird – gesture is diametrically opposite to how she normally behaves when high.

He deals with the remains of Louisa, finds a large beaker, fills it with water, places the flowers on his desk, and eats three chocolates.

Although he's still unsure what she's going on about, he pulls out his phone to send her a text.

_Thank you, Molly.  The flowers really spruce up my office and the chocolate is delicious._

Her response is nearly instant.

_If convenient, meet me at your flat at 8:00._

Grinning, Sherlock considers his reply when his mobile vibrates again with a new message.

_If inconvenient, be there anyway.  And do try to look presentable._

He chuckles again.

_Will do, Mo.  See you then._

* * *

 

"Hello," Sherlock says, glancing up from his book when the front door opens.  He's standing at the counter, wearing the purple shirt he knows Molly enjoys, reading and sipping wine.  He's spent the evening trying to figure out what Molly's up to.  It must be a case of some sort, one that requires that they attend a fancy event and Molly is in need of a date.  Her clothing only serves to support this theory as she is wearing what can only be described as a jumper dress.  The material is teal and so like that of her many hideous jumpers, but the garment is fitted and stops mid thigh. 

"Hello," she replies, slipping out of her jacket and dumping it on his sofa.

"Wow, Molly.  You look wonderful."

Beaming, she skips over to where he continues to stand at the counter, kissing his cheek as is becoming standard operating procedure. 

"Did you know they made dresses like this?  Jumpers that are meant to be fancy and dresses?  Morstan requested that I join her finding clothes that will actually cover her rapidly expanding body and I found this!  It's a dress and a jumper."

Sherlock laughs as this is the only time he's ever seen Molly looking remotely comfortable in what can reasonably called cocktail attire.  A floral hairband keeps her hair from her face, flowing wavy and natural down her back.  Upon closer inspection, it appears that her earrings are actually little anatomically correct skulls.

She's beautiful and somehow still manages to look like his Molly.

"I can't believe you went shopping at an actual store," he murmurs, reaching out to runs his fingers over the knitted fabric of her sleeve.  "Remind me to thank Mary."

Molly looks shy again, staring at her feet and wringing her hands.  "You really think I look nice?"

"Much more than nice.  Stunning, gorgeous, perfectly yourself."

She gets on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Let's go," she says, taking his hand and dragging him to the door.  She reaches for his coat and then actually holds it out to assist him in slipping his arms into the sleeves.  She's got her jacket back on before he can do the same for her.  "Don't want to be late.  I've made a reservation."

"Oh?" says Sherlock as he allows Molly to lead him by the hand to the street where she waves down a taxi.  “What’s the game then?  Some smuggling ring operating through a restaurant? Are we spying on a suspect?  Am I to pretend to be your boyfriend?"

They get in the cab and Molly turns to him, expression somewhat devastated, much to Sherlock's horror.

"We would have to pretend?" she murmurs, looking at a spot on his forehead as she fakes eye contact.  "I mean, you aren't my boyfriend for real?"

He hesitates for moment, as he is determined to go slow with Molly.  Since her hospital stay, he's even refrained from touching her, despite spending the night at Baker Street at least once a week.  They've had lunch and spent time together in the lab, but this is the first follow-up conversation to the one they had at the hospital. 

"I am your boyfriend," he decides.  "It's just usually for cases you give me a whole new role to play with a whole new name."

"Ah," Molly says, relaxing.  She scoots closer to him along the bench seat, pressing into his side.  Without planning to do so, he wraps an arm around her shoulders.  "I see.  Well, boyfriend of mine, you are just yourself tonight.  You are Sherlock Holmes and I am Molly Hooper and we will enjoy a fine meal as ourselves while I perpetually fill your wine glass in hopes that you will finally let me into your trousers."

Sherlock lets out a noise that is part laugh, part cough.  "Oh really," he manages, when speaking is once more possible.  "What's the occasion?"

"Anniversary."

"Pardon?"  It's one of the stranger things Molly's ever said as they have never so much as acknowledged an anniversary of any sort in the quarter century of knowing one another.

"Anniversary of our first kiss.  Don’t you remember?" she asks.

"I remember.  I just can't believe you remember."

"Oh, Sherlock," she says, smiling at him.  She pats his cheek twice.  "I'd never delete anything that involves you."

* * *

 

Molly is happy and bright during dinner.  She talks of her cases with great enthusiasm, gesturing wildly, her whole body engaged.  Sherlock wonders about the status of her _one last big case_ , but does not ask when Molly doesn't mention it.  He will do nothing to ruin the mood of the evening, not with Molly so obviously happy.

When Molly insists on paying for the meal, Sherlock finally understands.  The flowers and the chocolates and the delivered lunches and the way she kisses him in greeting and goodbye now make total sense to Sherlock.  It's been no great manipulation on Molly's part to butter him up and then insist he move in with her, but a genuine effort to try.  He told her he needed to go slow, to date, and Molly's been making quite the effort.

He is such a ponce for failing to notice, but it is hardly surprising that he expects the worst, given how Molly's treated him in the past.

Sherlock prevents Molly from hailing a cab, suggesting they simply walk through the park towards Baker Street.  They evening is crisp and ideally autumn, but chilly enough that Molly needs to cuddle close to keep warm.  Sherlock hardly complains.

He’ll stay the night, he’ll let her in his trousers, but he will certainly not agree to move in.

* * *

 

"Good God, Mo," Sherlock says, nearly choking on his wine when she stomps down the stairs and finds him lounging by the fire, glaring at the puzzle that sits, freshly completed by Mycroft, on a table.  "That's the worst I've seen yet.  And I'm including the childhood jumper with the hippopotamuses all over it.  That's the absolute worst."

Molly comes to stand before him, smirking down at her feet.  She fiddles with something at her hip and suddenly the miniature row of Christmas lights zig-zagging across her chest actually light up.

"You really brighten my bulbs, baby," Molly says with an inexplicable and perfect American accent. 

Sherlock blinks for a moment before laughing.  It's a real laugh, booming and from deep in his belly.  Molly giggles in reply.

Shaking his head, Sherlock's chuckles die off as he reaches out to finger the hem of this latest monstrosity, hideous jumper number forty-one.

"Would you rather I dress all posh and sleek?" she asks, gently kicking at his shin with her bare foot until he gets the message and makes room in the easy chair.  There is not really room for two, but Molly is small and touching her freely is still a wondrous thing.  "Imagine what a pretty picture we'd make."

"Mummy would be delighted.  It's a life long goal, getting you into some designer outfit."

"Would you be delighted?"  She's situated halfway on his lap, her arm draped over his shoulders and legs curled beneath her.

"Your most recent hideous jumper delights me."

Molly giggles again and presses her lips to his temple.  Feeling warm and tipsy – as one should on Christmas – Sherlock grins into his wine.

In the next room, John and Greg are talking earnestly.  John uses his hands excessively.  Greg keeps running his fingers through his hair. 

It's more than Sherlock's seen them interact in months.

"What's going on with those two?"

"Nothing," Molly says, answering to quickly.

"Molly."

"John is my best friend," she replies, fiddling with his hair.  "Apparently, this is some sort of sacred covenant that requires me to keep his private business to myself."

"Wow, that’s rather... socially aware of you."

"Yes well.  I am doing my damnedest to pay attention to this sort of drivel now.  Although, in the spirit of being honest with one’s partner, I must tell you that if you ask three, no, _one_ more time I will crack under the pressure and confess all.”

Sherlock rests a palm on her knee, giving it a squeeze.  "I won't ask again. It’s nice that you and John have a sacred covenant."

Mummy appears a moment later, looking perfect and regal in a deep red dress.  There is grey streaking her hair but she wears it well and it serves to make her look only that much more dignified.  Still, it is a reminder that Mummy is aging.  Constantly.  Although he sees her only several times a year, he's noticed the shaking in her hands, the tremors she attempts to hide under tablecloths or in pockets.

She had surgery for carpal tunnel years ago but there is less to be done about arthritis and age.  Her days as a concert violinist are numbered and what will she have then?  Children who adore her but also resent her for her absence.  A large empty house in the country.  No one to come home to.

Looking at his mother makes him sad.

"Oh," says Mummy.  "Am I interrupting?"  Despite her question she still enters the room and takes the seat next to the one Sherlock and Molly have stuffed themselves into.

"Not at all," says Sherlock.

Molly says nothing, aware for once that Mummy is not thrilled with their reunion. Before, she at least pretended not to care about Sherlock’s mother’s disapproval. This too has apparently changed.

"I have something for the pair of you," says Mummy.

"Oh?  Like a Christmas present?"  Sherlock asks.

Molly says nothing.

"No, not at all."  She opens her hand to reveal an old and familiar diamond ring.  It belonged to his grandmother Holmes (dead long before he was capable of remembering her) and was given to his mother by his father (also dead long before Sherlock was old enough to remember) when he proposed. 

It is special.  Sherlock is stunned as Mummy's never been overly supportive of them as a couple, despite how she loves Molly like one of her own.

Even the socially inept consulting detective understands the specialness and she sits up a bit straighter.

Sherlock sets down his wine and reaches for the ring, nearly overcome with awe at his mother, but then she is snapping her palm shut and moving away.

"I briefly considered giving this to Mycroft.  But are you aware that the woman carrying his child is married to another man?  Can you imagine it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  "Mary's divorce has nearly come through.  Although I'm not sure how anxious she'll be to rush into a second marriage."

"Technically, it's a third.  This is the second time she's divorced Jonathan," says Molly.

Mummy frowns, the lines around her mouth and eyes made much more pronounced with the expression.  She shakes her head, her resolve returning.

"Yes.  Well, back to the pair of you.  I understand that you are once more a couple."

"Yes," says Molly, before Sherlock can even open his mouth.  "Yes, although your son is being a right arse about the whole thing."

“We are taking it slow," says Sherlock.

"Just bloody move in already!" says Molly, shifting around in their chair to glare at him properly.  Her knee catches him in the thigh and he scowls right back.

"It's only been a few months," says Sherlock.  It is his typical reply to this typical argument.

"Yes, not to mentioned all of our whole bloody lives, too!"

"This is far from encouraging," says Mummy.  For once she appears amused rather then distressed.  "But surely you are both aware that if you are really doing this again, it must be serious."

"It's serious," says Molly.  "I'm serious."

Suddenly, Sherlock finds himself under the intense gaze of both his girlfriend and his mother.  A terrible position to be in.  The very worst.

"I am also serious," Sherlock says. He clears his throat before continuing.  "Thus my desire to go slowly."

Molly grumbles under her breath and crosses her arms over her chest.

"So you'll marry eventually, yes?" asks Mummy.

Now Molly is uncomfortable.  She pulls a face as if the whole world smells rotten.  "I've never seen much point to the whole institution," she says.  "But if Sherlock insists."

"I won't insist.  As long as we agree to be together for the remainder of our lives, I see no reason to insist."

Mummy sighs and slumps back in her seat.  "What is the matter with my boys?  One impregnating a married woman.  One wholly uninterested in marriage despite his long time affair with his best friend, a woman I’ve long considered my surrogate daughter.  Does no one in this family value tradition?"

Molly and Sherlock look at each other before looking back to Mummy. 

"Guess not," says Molly.

"Well, as long as you two agree not to break up once more at some future date I suppose that will have to do."  Mummy stands, places the ring on the completed puzzle, and runs her hands down her skirt.  "That ring has belonged to a string of very happy couples.  Do keep with that particular tradition.  Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes."

After Mummy's departure they stare at the ring for a few long, silent moments before Molly abruptly snatches it off the table and shoves it on her left hand.  "I'm wearing this," she declares, blushing.

"Alright," Sherlock agrees, completely failing to contain his grin.

"Mummy gave it to me and I'm wearing it.  Even if you won't move in."

"Alright."

"You can't make me take it off."

"Alright."

"So you’ll move in to Baker Street?"

"Not yet."

Beaming, Molly settles her head against his shoulder.  "Not yet is far superior to no.  Typically you say no."

* * *

 

He doesn't recall drifting off but when he wakes in the middle of the night he finds himself slumped on a sofa, Greg’s head resting on his shoulder.  Blinking in confusion, he surveys the room.  Nothing looks out of place in the familiar sitting room in the old house he grew up in, and all the Christmas guests seem to be present save for Molly and John. 

In the corner Mycroft paces around furiously, yelling into his mobile.  "Send the bloody chopper!  Immediately!"

Molly's words echo in his head.  _One last big case._

His internal organs all seem to twist round each other and he none too gently pushes Greg off his shoulder.

"Where's Molly?" he demands, voice harsh from sleep.

Mycroft whirls around, giving Sherlock a good glare.  "I've never known her to behave so rashly.  Even my influence might not be able to save her this time."

Sherlock is on his feet, hands wrapped around the lapels of his brother's suit jacket.  "Save her from what!  From hurting herself?  From death?"

"From the British justice system."  In the distance a chopper sounds and Mycroft knocks his hands away, stepping back and smoothing out his suit where Sherlock’s hands are no longer gripping him.  "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"I'm coming with."

"You certainly are not."

"Mycroft!"

"You'll make it worse, Sherlock.  When this lot wakes, I suggest you all return to London."

* * *

 

"She drugged me!” Mary says again as Sherlock helps her out of the car.  Given her current size, Sherlock imagines she needs help with most things.  "I'm pregnant with you niece or nephew and she drugged me!"

"I am sure she took your pregnancy into consideration when she gave us whatever it is she gave us."

"You are missing the point entirely, Sherlock."

"I'm too sick with worry to focus on your point, Mary."

Mary takes his arm and he slowly walks beside her as she waddles up her front steps.  "I'm worried too.  You call me, yeah?  When you learn anything new?  Your brother never would."

"I will, Mary."

She attempts a smile.  It is more grimace than anything.  "Cheers," she murmurs, turning to unlock the front door.

"Do you want me to walk you up?" he asks.

"I think I can manage the lift on my own."

He kisses her cheek, watches to make sure she gets to said lift, and returns to the black government vehicle Mycroft arranged.

"I'm coming with you," Greg says as Sherlock slides back into the vehicle.  "She's dragged my husband into whatever this is.  I'll be there when they get back and we both know John's first stop won't be our flat."

Sherlock nods and knocks on the partition.  "221 Baker Street," he says to the driver.

* * *

 

They eventually surrender to sleep and there is still no word from Molly, John, or Mycroft when they meet in the kitchen the next morning, bleary-eyed and sick with worry.  Greg gets a text from John around six am, the far from encouraging " _no ones dead see you in a few hours._ "

Greg badgers Sherlock until he agrees for going for a walk.  Outside on familiar London streets, Sherlock attempts to stomp out his worry.  Despite the grueling pace, nothing helps, certainly not the disgusting coffee they procure from Speedy's before once more returning to Baker Street. Despite the patches on both his arm and Greg’s, they split a pack of cigarettes.

221B is swarming with government officials in black suits when they reach the top of the stairs.  Through the sea of bodies, Sherlock searches desperately for Molly.  In the back of his mind he registers Greg's reunion with John in the kitchen, but he's finally spotted Molly, slumped in her chair and she gets the entirety of his attention.  Mycroft stands vigil just behind her, hand on her shoulder, as some government peon crouches at her feet.

The scene is odd but Sherlock doesn't care because Molly is _alive_.  Nor does he take much care not to hurt anyone as he shoves his way to Molly.

"Sherlock," she says, sitting up a bit straighter.  She can't bring herself to look at him and her gaze darts around the room.

He steps over the peon, busy working at Molly's feet, to take her face in his hands.  It's become ritual with them since Moriarty blew up the flat all those years ago and Sherlock runs his hands over her arms, through her hair, assuring himself that she is alive and unharmed.

He doesn't particularly want to ask the question.  He'd rather not know.

"What happened?" He forces the inquiry out of his dry throat.

Molly winces.

"Our Miss Hooper," says Mycroft with great resentment, "assaulted a man in plain view of the many assembled British security forces.  She beat him bloody with the butt of a pistol.  The head trauma was extensive."

"Should have shot the bastard.  Right in the temple."

"Molly!" shouts Sherlock, horrified.  Despite her chosen career path and her penchant for danger, she's always been a gentle soul.  Before she disappeared for two years, doing the unimaginable to take down Moriarty's network, she would never consider striking out in violence unless it was to defend herself or someone she loves.  Even then, what she was forced to do while away was unpleasant and she occasionally wakes with nightmares.  The lingering scars from then are apparently much deeper than Sherlock imagined if Molly not only beat a man but regrets not killing him.

Unless she did kill him.

"Is he…" Sherlock can’t quite bring himself to finish.

"Coma,” replies Molly.  “Possible permanent vegetative state.  Definite brain damage. Killing would have been much cleaner."

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth, giving an award-worthy impersonation of a fish.  Like all aquatic life, Sherlock is now without the capacity for speech.

"Your Miss Hooper," Mycroft says through a clenched jaw, "is now on house arrest, indefinitely. Given the sheer number of inmates who have Molly to blame for their incarceration, sending her to prison is certainly not an option."

Sherlock nods.

"There is nothing to do but wait. Her fate is now directly tied to Mr. Magnussen’s.  If he wakes up, there might be a chance of getting her out of this. If he stays this way, well, I suppose she stays here. But if he dies, Molly will be a murderer and there will be nothing I can do to protect her. "

Molly glances behind her.  "And then what?  I'll go to prison and wait around to be shivved by someone?  Killed in vengeance for all the criminals I got off the streets?"

Mycroft's anger slips for a moment and Sherlock sees the full extent of his brother's devastation.  Maybe in a few hours or a few days he'll feel like that too.  For now he is too numb for any of it.  He is so numb he is more fish than human.

"That," says Mycroft, turning away to stare out the window.  "Or you will be assigned a mission so dangerous, your chances of surviving longer than six months are somewhere around zero."

Molly closes her eyes.

Sherlock's legs will no longer support him and he falls to the arm of Molly's chair.

"Can I get back at it?" huffs the man kneeling at Molly's feet.  Sherlock can now see that he is busy affixing a monitor to her ankle that will ensure Molly stays in Baker Street indefinitely.

She scrubs her hands over her face, Mummy's ring catching the light and nearly blinding him.  That moment felt so secure and for the first time in the history of their relationship, Sherlock thought they might find a bit of stability.

And it was mere hours ago, less than a day.

How foolish he continues to be, after all these years.  When it comes to Molly, best not to have such expectations.

She wraps her arm around his leg, squeezing him with all that hidden strength.  Where a moment ago she was practically vibrating with fury, now she looks properly remorseful.  It's a small comfort, this minor return of his Molly, the one who could not commit murder in cold blood.

"Sherlock," she murmurs.

He can't do much more than look at her.

She gets a hand around the crisp collar of his white shirt, tugging until he's hunched nearly in two, her lips at his ear.

"One last big case, remember?" she whispers.

He nods.

"I love you," she says.

He nods again.

"That ought to do it," says the man at Molly's feet. 

Molly pulls up the leg of her shapeless khaki trousers to frown at the device she finds there that will track her every move.

Mycroft’s little peon goes on to explain the details of how it works, where she can now walk, how many seconds she'll have to get back within the boundary. He points out the many, many cameras his colleagues are busy installing.

Sherlock cannot listen.  All he hears is water rushing in his ears.

* * *

Across the kitchen table in 221B, scarred and stained by countless experiments, sits John and his traitorous, lying husband.  Greg Lestrade holds a bag of frozen peas to his jaw and winces when he ever summons the bravery to meet Sherlock's eye.

All is quiet in the flat now with all the government types filing out after they were certain that Molly would stay put, thanks to the ankle monitor, the plethora of newly installed surveillance cameras, and Molly's own earnest vow to cooperate.

Mycroft was the last to leave and Sherlock walked him out, staying silent as his brother apologized over and over for letting this happen, for his inability to fix this for her.  For the first time in memory, Mycroft is helpless and he is not taking it well.

But this cannot be blamed on Mycroft.  This is all Molly's doing. One last big fucking case.

When he returned to the quiet flat, Molly met him with a large goblet of wine.  John and Greg were already seated in the kitchen, looking wary and tired.  Their expressions of sadness and guilt and extreme trepidation made sense only after Molly recited the story in a robotic voice to her feet from the moment just after her return when John was nearly burned alive.

With no hint of emotion, she connected seemingly isolated events to spin a web of blackmail around one Charles Augustus Magnussen.  This master of secrets, the most dangerous person alive in England, needed to be stopped, Molly said, because Greg Lestrade has not always been Greg Lestrade and in a former life, he was an assassin of some sort. 

And Magnussen knew all about it.

Sherlock stopped paying attention after Molly explained that it was Greg that shot her when she stumbled upon his attempt to assassinate Magnussen himself.  Greg put up no fight as Sherlock tackled him to the ground.  He is certain he succeeded in fracturing a rib before Molly and John managed to pull him off the traitor. 

Greg – or whoever the hell he is – removes the peas from his face, grimaces as he pokes his swollen, discolored jaw, and returns the peas.  Sherlock finds his pain immensely satisfying and completely inadequate all at once.

It took Molly nearly an hour to calm him down with soft words, gentle reassurances, and copious amounts of wine.

And here they sit.

"I'm so sorry!"  Greg bursts out.  It is not the first time the phrase has come out of the traitor's lips.  He is flustered and jittery, like the somewhat goofy but completely dependable man Sherlock considered a friend only a few hours ago.  "I never intended to kill her.  Just to slow her down and give myself more time to figure out the mess with John.  I thought I could convince her to keep quiet."

John snorts but then seems to regret it.  He reaches out to take Greg's hand.  It seems like after months of fighting, John has chosen this moment to forgive his traitorous husband.  Sherlock decides John is a traitor too.

"Really, Sherlock.  You need to get over this," Molly says as she paces around behind him.  He can practically hear her wringing her hands and glancing about with big, earnest, wary eyes.

"Do I?" he hisses in reply, feeling dangerous.

"Yes. Yes.  All ancient history.  Lestrade and I are fine therefore you and Lestrade should also be fine."

Sherlock guzzles more wine as his only suitable alternative to bashing up Greg's face some more.

"So," he says when the wine is gone.  Molly is at his elbow immediately with a refill.  "Since Greg's nasty little secrets came out you've been working on a way to take down Magnussen? He is your one last big case?"

"Yes.  I calculated eleven possible outcomes when we left you all sleeping after Christmas dinner.  First—“

"The abridged version, Molly.” Sherlock rubs his temples.  “ _Please_."

"I thought he had files on people.  Stored, written, actual records, but he had everything memorized and it completely threw off all my plans.  You can't force someone to forget."

"Unless you beat their head in." Sherlock mutters.

"Right," Molly says.  "So you understand and forgive me and we can move on to how you'll keep me entertained while I'm trapped in this flat by moving in?"

Sherlock glares at her over his shoulder. "No."

She sighs heavily and pulls out the chair beside Sherlock's. Sitting with her knees bumping into his thigh, Molly stares at him as intently as she's able. 

"This man deals in blackmail, Sherlock,” she says, “and your brother is arguably the most powerful man in the country, second only to Magnussen himself. Own Greg, own Mycroft. According to Magnussen, Mycroft’s pressure point is me, which I suppose is true for reasons I won’t even pretend to understand, and my pressure point is John. John’s pressure point is obviously Greg. Own Greg, own Mycroft. Now somehow, like Moriarty before him, Magnussen completely missed you, Sherlock, and in reality you are pressure point to both Mycroft and me, so imagine the disaster on our hands if I did not bash his brains in and he somehow found out about you.”

"Oh," he murmurs, finally understanding the enormity of the danger this man presented. 

Mycroft would do nearly anything for Molly but would do absolutely everything for Sherlock.

“He could make us do absolutely anything, Sherlock,” she says.

Own Greg, own Mycroft indeed.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and he won't wake up," she murmurs, suddenly sounding as exhausted as Sherlock feels.  "Maybe we'll get even luckier and he'll wake up with enough brain damage to not remember but not enough to be, you know, childlike.  Maybe I'll have to figure out a new way to kill him.  I was going to shoot him," she announces to everyone.

For the first time in hours, there are signs of life in John.  He clears his throat.  "Why didn't you?"

"Sherlock," she says.  "For you, John, for Lestrade, Magnussen needed to go away.  But for Sherlock, I couldn't go away too.  At least this way Mycroft didn't need to send me off to my death right away.  At least with this, there is hope."

"Oh, Molly," murmurs John.

Greg the Traitor looks nearly moved to tears himself.

Sherlock abruptly stands.  "I'm going to bed."

He tucks himself into Molly's bed and gladly allows her kisses when she joins him a few minutes later.

* * *

 

Molly says all the right things. She offers apologies and promises and even begs him to stay.

Truthfully, he does consider leaving but only very briefly. When he chose Molly it was with a full understanding of what being with her entails. Although this is beyond anything he could have imagined and the possibilities for Molly’s future terrify him, leaving is not an option for Sherlock.

Leaving has never been an option.

“Is it too much?” Molly whispers in the dark two days after Christmas. “Is this too much for you?”

“Yes,” he replies. “But I am staying anyway.”

* * *

 

“What on Earth are you doing?" Sherlock asks, shaking the snow from his hair.  He's spent the better part of the morning shopping for food and beverages and decorations for the last minute New Years party they are throwing at Baker Street. It was Mary’s idea and Sherlock is not in the mood, but Mary is so persuasive. He blames the pregnancy. Molly surprised everyone by actually agreeing. "Molly?"

She does not acknowledge him at all and continues to stare at the telly where a horde of overly attractive American teenagers are singing and dancing.  He recognizes the song as some hit from several years back and Molly seems utterly entranced.

Sighing, he goes about the business of putting away his purchases.  Although he makes a show of slamming cabinets and stomping around, he's pleased that Molly at the very least did not undo his manic cleaning of the night before.  The only thing out of place in the flat is Molly herself, wearing the garish orange dressing gown and staring at the screen instead of preparing for their guests to arrive.

He goes to stand beside her and the song ends.  Molly scrambles around for the remote, muting the program before the American teens can talk.

"I loathe the not singing bits," Molly says, scowling at the television.

"But you like the singing bits?" Sherlock says with disbelief.

"Yes.  It's called _Glee_ and there is a marathon all through the New Year."

“Where did you even get a television?” Sherlock demands.

“John. Thought it might be a nice distraction, now that I’m trapped here.”

"Ah, and speaking of, John and his traitor of a husband, along with Mary and Mrs. Hudson, are all coming over. Should be here in a few hours."

She hums her agreement and blindly reaches out to tug on his arm until he sits.  "And Wiggins."

"What."

"You remember from my drug test.  Bill Wiggins.  Also Sally and Anderson.  And I invited Victor, but he has a date. Promised to come round tomorrow, though."

"What!  As in _Sally_ , Sally? The Sally who works with Mary, who I used to…”

“Fuck?”

“Date!”

“Yes, Sherlock. Quite like that one, turns out. Probably was a bit hasty with my original deductions to run her off. Although I was flying high at the time so I don’t totally recall what I said, but I am sure it was brutal because I am a jealous, wicked woman.”

“You didn't think you should have mentioned all that before I went shopping?"

"I've turned it into a potluck.  And they've all been instructed to bring their own alcohol and not talk to me but it hardly matters.  We should cancel and just watch Glee all night."

"I have no interested in this drivel."

Sherlock suddenly finds himself with a lap full of Molly.

"Sherlock.  Darling.  Do you know how much not-singing is in this show?  An absurd amount of not singing.  You could snog me all through the not singing bits."

She kisses him a bit, demonstrating her point, and Sherlock allows it because with her lips on his, the constant worry doesn’t hum in his head. With Molly touching him like this, he can forget the total shit that is currently Molly’s life and his by extension.

But Sherlock committed to this, committed to her, and he resolves to do all in his power to keep her current predicament from totally dictating their lives.

Thus the small New Years gathering that Molly turned into a full on party when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Go get dressed,” he murmurs, slowly pushing Molly off his lap.

* * *

 

“It’s a girl,” Greg says, looking bashful as he shows a sonogram to Mary and Sally and Mycroft, who for whatever reason decided to suffer through the evening surrounded by goldfish. Sherlock leans against a wall, observing from a distance, as he is still unwilling to get too close to Greg, baby pictures or no.

“A girl!” says Mary, grinning as she snatches the picture from Greg’s hand.   Sally crowds over her shoulder to get a better look and that’s another person Sherlock must avoid. “You wanted to find out before, huh?”

“Well,” says John. “I’m a doctor. Can’t really not see what I see, although I would have kept it to myself if Greg wanted.”

“I certainly did not want.”

“Mycroft wants it to be a surprise,” Mary says, forcing Sherlock’s exceedingly uncomfortable brother to study the sonogram.

“Very nice,” replies Mycroft, droll as ever.

“He enjoys ruining all my fun,” says Mary.

“This is the one and only time I’ve ever coveted a surprise. Let me have it, would you?”

Mary laughs and when she places a kiss on his cheek, Mycroft’s eyes bug out of his skull.

Sherlock bites back a chuckle and longs for a cigarette.

Molly mutes the telly as the Glee teenagers are no longer singing. Anderson, who is sitting in John’s chair at her side, protests.

“No, only when there is singing,” says Molly, taking the remote with her as she approaches the group gathered in the kitchen. She pauses to stand beside Sherlock, leaning into his chest. “Next year will be better, Sherlock. There will be babies about. And us, together.”

Molly’s strange, unexpected optimism is somewhat infectious and Sherlock runs his fingers through her hair.

With Molly’s hand in his, Sherlock is able to ignore his distress and actually enjoy the little party. He still won’t speak to Greg, but he watches Molly and Sally discuss some case, their repertoire familiar and teasing and not at all awkward. He vastly enjoys mocking Mycroft for the easy affection Mary shows him, and Mycroft looks smug rather than embarrassed.

Good conversation, alcohol, and Molly’s hand in his cause the time to pass quickly, and in a blink John is calling for silence, staring at his watch and wrapping an arm around Greg’s waist.

“Okay, in ten.” He begins the countdown and other voices join his as Mrs. Hudson makes sure that everyone’s drink is topped off. “Nine, eight, seven, six.”

Molly turns to face Sherlock, biting her lip and fisting one hand in the fabric of his button up. She looks up at him from beneath long eyelashes and it gets a bit easier to believe that next year will be better, that despite all they’ve been through it’ll work itself out.

“—five,” Molly whispers along with the chanting, “four, three, two—“

_“Did you miss me?”_

Every single body in the kitchen turns to look at the telly. Sherlock’s dread returns, although he cannot pinpoint why exactly.

“What? Did you unmute Molly’s program, Anderson?” asks Mary. Her fingers are curled around Mycroft’s collar, obviously ready to pull him down into a New Years kiss.

“What?” says Anderson, putting his palms up. “No! I’m over here. Nowhere near the telly.”

_“Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”_

Mycroft’s phone rings, but Sherlock is completely focused on Molly as she slowly steps away, moving with careful steps towards the television. Her head is tilted to the side and the long sleeves of her jumper are pulled over her hands.

_“Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”_

Mycroft barrels past him, hissing into his phone as he joins Molly in front of the telly.

Sherlock is reasonably certain that he’d rather not know what is making Molly stare so intently at the screen, head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed, one corner of her mouth ticked up. Her expression is very nearly a smile, and she is surely both surprised and interested and – Lord help him - delighted.

_“Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”_

The partygoers migrate to the living room, joining Molly and Mycroft in their staring, and Sherlock has no more reason to delay. When he gets to Molly’s side, he isn’t even surprised to see Jim Moriarty’s face filling the screen, chin twitching, because this is Molly and no matter how much they might want next year to be better than the last few, it will not be so.

Worst of all, Molly doesn’t look at all wrecked at the prospect of Moriarty’s return. Sherlock is utterly wrecked but Molly is _delighted_.

_“Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”_

But then, without ever taking her eyes off the screen, Molly wraps her fingers around his wrist. Her grip is too firm and completely protective. This small touch is enough for Sherlock to understand that Molly is not delighted by this newest mystery, but determined to keep Sherlock safe, to keep them all safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So THIS IS NOT THE END. I seriously considered ending it where the series left off, but I've gotten some lovely requests/pleas to continue on and you've managed to convince me. Not that it was hard to do as I am really not ready to stop writing this story. Still, that means I have pretty much no plan, so it might be a bit longer until my next update. I'll probably continue for another couple chapters, but we shall see.
> 
> Thank you all for being so very lovely. Come say hi! jaxington.tumblr.com.
> 
> Betaed by The Marvelous Monica!


	13. The Final Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly insists it is not Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monica is the best of all betas.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> I must warn you, this one gets creepy. There is blood and such, just so you know. 
> 
> One more chapter after this one, but unfortunately I won't be able to write it until December. NaNo is my favorite time of the year, so all my writing energy will be devoted to my November novel.
> 
> Enjoy!

It is difficult to tell though the extreme pain in his head if he even still has eyes to open.  The whole world seems to have gone wonky and Sherlock's reasonably certain that his hands and feet are also missing.  It's his ears that first come back online as Sherlock flickers on the edge of consciousness and his headache pulses in time with the pop music he seems to be hearing.

_Hit me baby one more time._

"Britney Spears?" Sherlock can't help but mutter the pop star's name when he becomes aware of the lips still attached to his face and the mouth he still is able to control.

The song is apparently on repeat and it plays a full three times before Sherlock manages to get the eyes he still apparently has to open.

Bright, painful light blinds him immediately and Sherlock hisses at the sun, high in the sky and streaming in through great floor to ceiling windows.  Britney Spears requests that her baby hit her one more time several more times before Sherlock is ready to once more blink against sunshine.

Head still fuzzy and confused, he takes stock of his bizarrely luxurious surroundings.  The carpet is plush and white, matching the walls.  The wooden furniture is dark and polished.  The wall before him is composed entirely of windows and he appears to be in some sort of high-rise flat as London is spread out before him.  The day on the other side of the glass is bright and cheery for once, directly opposite of what Sherlock thinks it should be as he is currently bound to a chair, head pounding, eyes surely about to pop out of his skull, and Britney Bloody Spears blasting from a sleek set of speakers far outside his reach.

" _My loneliness is killing me_."

A new voice joins that of bloody Britney, this one Irish and so familiar.  Sherlock turns his head as far as he can to the right and he can see a kitchen with perfectly white countertops and stainless steel appliances but no other person.

" _I must confess, I still believe.  Still believe_!"

The voice is directly behind him now and Sherlock's heart is flying out of his chest, headache and other pain forgotten in this new terror ripping through him.  He searches for logic and wishes – not for the first time but probably for the last – that he was more like Molly with her calm and her calculating.  Hair stands up on the back of his neck as everything in him screams to flee and he struggles uselessly against the ropes, shooting sharp pain through his numb limbs.

" _When I'm not with you I lose my mind_."

The voice is in his ear now, a horrible whisper.  Hot breath touches his neck and somehow despite his conviction that he is about to die, Molly is in his head, absolutely insisting that he "calm down, you wanker.  Play it cool."

Relaxing in this moment might be the most difficult task he's ever faced, but Sherlock slouches slightly in his seat.  He stares straight forward and stops shrugging against his bindings.

"Hello."  There is no quiver in his voice, only a slight hint of boredom he picked up from Molly.  "Good morning.  You have a lovely home."

" _Hit me baby one more time_!" Janine replies.

* * *

 

“I don’t know, Mycroft.” Sherlock attempts to rub the grit from his eyes and then glances up from the doorway to look at Molly, sitting with her legs crossed in the center of her bed, staring straight ahead. It’s the same position she’s been in since Moriarty’s face disappeared from the telly, three minutes and thirty-one seconds after midnight. “I’ve never seen her go so deep into her Mind Palace. She spoke to me once, around four AM, when I attempted to use the loo. I’m not allowed to leave her side, it would seem.”

“Just…” Mycroft sighs heavily and he sounds nearly as exhausted as Sherlock feels. “This cannot wait. We will arrive in one hour’s time. Do make sure the flat is habitable. These are very important people who would like to talk to Molly.”

“And you are worried about the state of the flat? At a time like this? Shouldn’t you be more concerned with how Moriarty or whoever managed to get his image on every channel in Great Britain for nearly four minutes!”

“Obviously we are working on it!” snaps Mycroft. “Just try and attempt to get Molly into a coherent state in an hour’s time, will you?”

Sherlock hangs up without replying.

He watches Molly for a few minutes more. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was meditating and peaceful or perhaps asleep sitting up. In truth, behind her eyelids, Molly’s mind is whirling, reliving every interaction with Moriarty and especially his death on the roof.

They are both in need of a shower and coffee – Sherlock would also do nearly anything for a cigarette – but he will not pull Molly from her mind, not until she finds whatever it is she’s looking for.

Instead he crosses the room to lie down beside her. He curls around her body, feeling desperate and exhausted and like the whole world will unravel if they leave this room.

Without opening her eyes, Molly’s hands find his hair and she directs his head into her lap.

“It’s not Moriarty,” she whispers, fingers gentle and soothing as they comb through his hair. He can tell from her tone alone that she is still far away, halfway in her head still.

“What?” he asks, somewhat surprised to hear her voice after hours of silence.

“I’m sure. I always miss something, but not this. James Moriarty is dead. It’s not Moriarty.”

“Good.” Sherlock exhales and he thinks maybe he could manage to fall asleep because Molly’s legs are warm beneath his neck and it’s not Moriarty.

“Not good,” Molly amends, fully coming back to the moment now. “Because I did miss something, as I always do, and they have to be very good to have gone so long without my notice. And to have terrorized the country so thoroughly by such unknown means. This is not good, Sherlock. But it is also not Moriarty.”

“Oh.”

He is not prepared for her sudden kiss. The angle is odd as she is coming from upside-down and Molly needs to brush her teeth, but Sherlock returns it anyway. After a few moments Sherlock gets frustrated with the very limited contact their current position allows and he sits up. Molly groans in frustration, but lets him shift them around until she is laid out beneath him, thighs wrapped around his waist, feet resting against his calves.

“No one will hurt you, Sherlock,” she says, hands on his face, thumbs running over his cheekbones. The length of time she is able to maintain eye contact now is unprecedented.

“I would feel more comforted if you assured me that no one will hurt you, Molly.”

She rolls her eyes and starts pulling at Sherlock’s clothes.

“But, ah, Mo—“ Her lips are at his throat and her hand is in his trousers. When she rolls her hips, Sherlock nearly loses the ability to think all together. “Mycroft. And other important people.”

“Don’t care,” Molly murmurs, once more making eye contact. Sherlock will always be a sucker for eye contact. “I need you. Must have you. Right this very minute.”

He barely manages a nod before she’s kissing him again.

* * *

 

"Do you fancy Britney Spears?" Janine's turned down the song so that is no longer blaring, but it's still been on repeat for hours.  When Janine stuck a needle in his arm, making him woozy but unfortunately not knocking him out, Britney's loneliness was killing her.  When Janine pushed Sherlock in his chair – an office style one with a high back and wheels – to sit at the kitchen table, Britney requested that her baby hit her one more time.  Now that Janine is feeding him an unbelievably delicious meal, Britney wants to be given a sign.

"No," says Sherlock.  He answers honestly and willingly, all defenses erased by the combination of the same horrible song, drugs, and Janine’s thoroughly bizarre behavior.  She acts as if this is all utterly normal, as if Sherlock is her dinner guest rather then her prisoner.  Although the same song played constantly seems like a method of particularly cruel torture, Janine acts as though she is genuinely enjoying it, over and over and over, and would probably be playing it even without Sherlock in her company.

"How can you not fancy Britney Spears?" Janine asks, grinning.  "She's brilliant.  And beautiful.  This song speaks to me.  Does it speak to you?"

"No, it most certainly does not.  Perhaps the first few dozen times I found it catchy by now I loathe it more then I've loathed anything ever."

Janine giggles as if they are friends chatting.  He is reminded of the countless talk show appearance she made when spinning a false account of her relationship with Molly to the public, ones that he watched despite Molly begging him not to.

"Don't be so cranky, mister." She shoves another bite of something delicious in his mouth and Sherlock chews, shivering slightly as he wonders just what will happen when what goes in must come out.

"I adore Britney, could just eat her up.  Even when she shaved her head.  Oh!"  Janine drops her fork.  It clatters to her plate and Sherlock eyes her with deep unease.  She then scrambles up from her seat, dashing off to places unknown.  He can hear her rooting around somewhere over the softly crooning Britney and attempts to wiggle out of his bindings, despite his weakened limbs and blurry vision.  In the end he simply succeeds in turning his chair around so he can survey the empty room.

Sherlock hopes Janine never locates whatever she is looking for.

Unfortunately she returns with electric hair clippers, the type used in salons to give buzz cuts and on farms to shear sheep.

Humming along to the song, Janine plugs in the device and progresses to completely shave Sherlock's head.  Dark tufts of hair fall into his lap and onto the abandoned plate of food, but Sherlock is too shocked to move or fight or protest.

"Oh," says Janine, frowning at Sherlock when she's succeeded in removing all the hair from his head.  As if didn't have a problem looking like an alien before, now he is without the hair that Molly so enjoys running her fingers through.  "This is awful.  Britney looks much better shaved.  Sometimes my lack of impulse control does really not work out.  Like when I killed our mother when I was eight, for example.  Although, arguably, that did work out for without that first little push into the criminal, Jim probably wouldn't have gotten so far.  Took all the credit, he did.  Bastard."

Janine is fond and conversational.  Britney is starting up yet again.  Sherlock is bald, fuzzy, and utterly, horrifically terrified.

* * *

 

Sherlock has showered and dressed when Mycroft arrives, accompanied by a horde of powerful government types. A few he recognizes from the news, but for the most part these people are like Mycroft and they wield their power from the shadows, their jobs only done correctly if the public remains unaware that a job needed doing in the first place.

The shower still runs with Molly still in it. They argued for a few minutes as Molly did not want him leaving her sight, but Sherlock promised to not leave the flat and she begrudgingly let him go prepare tea for their guests.

Mycroft plays host, for which Sherlock is thankful. He gets everyone settled in the living room while Sherlock lingers in the kitchen organizing tea on trays that Mycroft distributes, gesturing back towards Sherlock and introducing him as “Holmes the younger.”

Molly enters, looking rather ridiculous with her wet hair, wearing Sherlock’s white shirt and purple scarf. She does not glance at those gathered in her living room, choosing instead to join Sherlock in the kitchen. She stands on her tip toes to kiss his cheek and then climbs onto the kitchen table where she sits on the surface, finally facing Mycroft and his cronies.

"It’s not Moriarty," Molly announces. Legs crossed beneath her, she sits with all the posture of a yoga master and despite the apparently important people now packed into 221B, she looks only at Mycroft when she speaks

"It's absolutely not Moriarty," Molly says again, causing a ripple of murmured conversation to go through the government officials seated rather uncomfortably in the living room.  Mycroft alone remains quiet, comfortable here amongst Molly's chaos while his counterparts are so obviously not. 

Sherlock takes a seat at the kitchen table in a chair and although he'd rather be almost anywhere else – Molly's bedroom, Bart's, his own bloody flat – Molly has barely let him out of touching distance since Moriarty's face came back to haunt them.

"Perhaps it would be best if your younger brother excused himself for this conversation," says a proper looking lady in her fifties.  Like the rest of them, she wears a neatly trimmed black suit and appears to perpetually be smelling something rather rotten just beneath her nose.

Despite his curiosity, Sherlock rises to do as the woman requests.  These are the most powerful officials in Britain and Molly might be used to dealing with them with Mycroft, but Sherlock is much more removed from the political side of her work.

Molly glares at the woman, her hand finding Sherlock's shoulder and pushing him back down into the chair at her side with more force then Sherlock finds necessary.

"He stays," Molly says, still staring down Mycroft's cronies, daring them to argue.  Without even glancing at him, Molly tangles her fingers in the hair at the back of Sherlock's head, the gesture odd and clearly possessive. 

The conversation does not improve much from there and when they leave an hour later nothing much has been decided, but it is clear that Molly will take and solve this case if she ever wants to leave 221B again.

Mycroft stays and the three of them sit around in silence for a few minutes, until Molly slides off the table in favor of pacing the length of the flat.

"You are not to leave this flat alone, Sherlock.  It may not be Moriarty, but whoever this is surely knows you are the reason I did not actually kill myself like Moriarty did.  You are not safe.  And I will not have you wandering out there alone."

"Molly, really—“

"She's right, Sherlock," Mycroft says, collapsing on the sofa.  It seems the sleepless night combined with the lengthy discussion with his cohorts have left him just as exhausted as Sherlock.  Molly seems to be gearing up to not sleep for the entirety of the case, if her increasingly frantic pacing is any indication.  "If either of you think I will not have a security detail tailing you, then you just haven't been paying attention."

Sherlock sighs heavily and takes a seat next to his brother, rubbing his temples.

"That will not do for Sherlock," Molly says, blowing her hair out of her face as she continues pacing.  "He will always be with me or John or Greg.”

"I will not be babysat by Greg!"

Molly rolls her eyes at the floor and keeps on with her dizzying back and forth from kitchen to living room.

"Mycroft, I need you to further secure Bart's," she says.

Mycroft nods.

"And you should really talk to Morstan about staying at her desk until her pregnancy ends.  Or better yet get her to take her leave early.  Under normal circumstances, she's more then capable of taking care of herself.   She's utterly useless to me now that she must waddle between crimes scenes and urinate four time once we are there. You picked a very inconvenient time to impregnate my DI, Mycroft.""

"I'll be sure to pass that along.  But for the sake of preserving your friendship, do allow me to rephrase your suggestion slightly," Mycroft drawls.

Molly nods absently before turning abruptly towards the staircase.  She grabs her jacket on the way out and Sherlock blinks as she disappears.  Her feet thud on the stairs as she sprints down them and a moment later the front door of 221 slams.

"Bet you are not so happy to see the ankle bracelet go now," mutters Mycroft.

* * *

 

“Ah, there we go.” Janine’s voice is soft as he blinks, regaining consciousness. Her hands are gentle as she binds his wrists once more to the armrests of his chair. The kindness in her voice is endlessly confusing and Sherlock’s head lolls back. His neck doesn’t seem to be functioning properly.

“You drugged me,” he slurs.

“Surely, as close as you are with Molly, this is not the first time.”

Sherlock merely blinks more.

“Needed to get you in the bath,” she explains, bending to tie his ankles. She wears a floral dress, her hair shiny and curled, lips painted red. What a lovely captor she makes and Sherlock thinks he hates her even more then he hated her brother. “It’s not pleasant, using that bed pan. Hygiene is of the upmost importance, silly.”

“Bath?” He inhales, smelling baby oil on his skin.

“Don’t frown at me, mister. There was no funny business. Just a nice wash. The most difficult part was keeping you from drowning. Never bathed a passed out body before, honestly,” she continues to chatter.

Sherlock remains fuzzy, can barely feel his limbs.

“You’ve lovely skin, Sherlock,” she murmurs. Her fingers trace down the length of his arms before standing and moving somewhere outside his line of sigh. _Baby One More Time_ plays again, quiet and horrible. Sherlock groans and Janine hums.

"Are you lonely, Sherlock?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the sofa at his side, sipping a cup of tea.  

Sherlock blinks at her some more as it seems the main thing he is capable of doing at the moment.

“No,” she continues with a small sigh, “How could you be.  You're with Molly now.  Who could be lonely with Molly filling up their life?  She's so large, you know?  Things orbit her.  Like Jim.  Jim orbited her.  Molly filled up his life and his head, so he put a bullet through it to break her and he still didn't win.  I wasn't lonely, before Jim met Molly, but now my brother's gone and lonely is all I am.  Lonely and impulsive."

“So sorry,” says Sherlock for reasons he can’t quite determine.

Janine laughs, throwing her head back and laughing. “Fancy a spot of tea?”

* * *

 

Three days of no Molly and it is Sally Donovan waiting for him in his office at the end of his shift.

"Hello," he greets, rather wary.  Despite occasionally being forced to be in the same vicinity in these last years, Sherlock can't recall actually speaking to the officer.  He once thought he could have a future with Sally and then she saw Molly at her absolutely worst and ever since things have been strange.

"Hi," Sally replies, glancing up only briefly from her phone.  She rolls her eyes at the screen and begins texting furiously, muttering under her breath as Sherlock shuffles his feet and glances around his office, unsure how to proceed. 

He hangs up his lab coat and tidies his desk, even though it is mostly tidy.  It seems like an eternity before Sally finally puts her mobile away.

"Sorry," she says.  "Now that the DI is bound to her desk, she has me acting as her eyes and ears in the field.  She's driving me mad, checking up on me every three bloody seconds.  But I guess pregnant ladies are allowed to annoy everyone.  So, are you ready to go?"

"Um, where's John?"

"Dunno.  Molly didn't say.  Just that she needed someone to be here to take you home."

Sherlock sighs and runs his hands through his hair.  He tries not to be embarrassed that his current girlfriend enlisted his ex-girlfriend to protect him as he is apparently incapable of doing so himself.  And they are not wholly wrong, as Sherlock cannot fire a gun, know when he is being followed, or hold his own in a fight.  Still, Mycroft's hidden security detail surely is adequate.  For a few long seconds he frowns at Sally as he considers insisting that he is fine to get home on his own.  She merely smirks back as if she knows his exact dilemma and Sherlock gives up.

"Fine.  Yes.  I am ready to go home."

* * *

 

"Ah," says Sally as she navigates her police car through the nearly deserted streets of London.  It is cold and dark and wet, so most people seem to have the good sense to stay in.  "You are directing me to Baker Street."

"Yes," says Sherlock, barely refraining from fidgeting in his seat.

"So you gave up the old place then?  Molly mentioned that she's been campaigning to get you to move in for months."

Sherlock gapes for a moment, shocked that Molly shares anything so personal with someone whom she considers a colleague only. 

"I have _not_ moved in," he manages.  "I still have the old place.  My stuff is there and everything.  With Molly so preoccupied I've simply been staying over to take care of her cat."

Sally snorts and Sherlock feels like he should say something, perhaps apologize again for the way things ended, but that was years ago and Sally would probably only laugh at his bumbled attempt to bring up ancient history.

"Thank you, Sally," he says.  "For the ride."

"Sure," she replies.  "If driving you home from work allows Molly to stay focused on finding this bastard, then I'm happy to help."

He waves as he exits the car but Sally does not pull away until he's closed the front door behind him. 

Tired as he is, conquering the stairs up to 221B seems like an impossible feat, but somehow he manages.  He is somewhat surprised to see a light on under the door and even from the hall outside he can hear rich female laughter that he definitely not Molly.  Curiosity has him moving a bit fast and he takes a moment to pause in the entryway, striving to understand the scene before him.

Molly sits with her legs crossed beneath her in her typical armchair.  She looks haggard, still wearing her red leather jacket, and a steaming mug is clenched between her hands as she stares down at the guest who sits on the floor. 

A dead woman is smirking up at Molly, her lips perfect and red, her shiny brown hair carefully pulled back.  Her dress is black, hitched high up on her legs given her position on the floor.

"Oh," says The Woman as she catches sight of Sherlock, frozen by the door.  In one fluid movement she gets to her feet, looking like some sort of ethereal creature in a tight dress.  She slowly approaches Sherlock, appraising him with sharp, hungry eyes.  "You _are_ something special, aren't you?  Molly, my dear, you failed to convey just how special he is.  Look at those cheekbones.  I could cut myself slapping that face."

Sherlock can do little but stare.

"Irene, please.” Molly rolls her eyes.  “Behave yourself."

"Never," murmurs, The Woman as she continues to stare at every inch of him.  "You are the naughty one, Molly.  Hiding this delightful creature from me.  Keeping him all to yourself.  Smart may be the new sexy, but sexy is still rather sexy, no?"

"Pardon?" asks Sherlock, unable to follow the conversation.

The Woman laughs and rests her delicate hands on his shoulders, squeezing for a moment before running her fingers down his arms.  Sherlock is unsure what he should be doing here but Molly is on her feet, inserting herself into the small space between Sherlock and The Woman. 

"Hands off, Irene," says Molly, glaring at The Woman before dragging Sherlock into the living room.  She forces him down into her armchair and then sits in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"If only you got half that possessive with me," says The Woman, sounding wistful now as she helps herself to a seat in John's chair. 

"Sherlock," Molly says, gesturing in the general direction of The Woman.  "This is Irene Adler.  Irene, meet my Sherlock."

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Holmes," purrs the woman.

"Does no one around here stay dead!" demands Sherlock.

* * *

 

After a failed attempt to get Sherlock to prepare dinner, Molly calls in for delivery.  The three of them gather around the kitchen table to eat and Sherlock is not sure if he is angry – Molly lied to him, again – or jealous – this is the woman, _The_ _Woman_ , that had Molly entrance and twisted up for the better part of a year – but he decides to not be either.  He settles on simply enjoying his Indian food and listening as Molly and her former lover discuss the current predicament.

"I've found nothing," says Molly, pounding on the table and mostly ignoring her meal.  "There's been nothing.  No overly suspicious deaths, no disappearances, no evidence of people being manipulated into whatever sick game this fake Moriarty is playing at.  Perhaps they've gone into hiding again to drive me absolutely mad."

"Eat," Sherlock murmurs in her ear, placing a hand on her thigh under the table.  After nearly a week without the least bit of success, Molly needs a good meal and a long sleep.

Molly starts shoving food in her mouth in a way that is neither neat nor polite, but Sherlock grins at her anyway.  Across the table, The Woman is once more smirking at them, her head tilted slightly as if she's just discovered all the secrets in the universe.  Sherlock stares intently at his meal.

"I, too, was unable to find anything.  Even my most corrupt contacts have not a clue about what happened on New Year’s.  The criminal underworld is rather spooked, actually.  They think daddy is coming home and they've been breaking all the rules these last few years. I understand that fear.  Seems I came out of hiding a bit early," says The Woman, pouting.

"Why did you?" Sherlock asks, studying The Woman in return now.  "Come out of hiding, I mean."

Irene shrugs.  "Molly killed all the people after me."

Sherlock shivers as he always does when he is forced to think on Molly and what she had to do those two years when she was away.

"I _thought_ I killed all the people after you," Molly says, pausing with a spoonful of rice and sauce near her mouth.  "Obviously I missed someone."

Sherlock rubs Molly's knee and she relaxes slightly, continuing to eat at a more reasonable pace now.

"There have been rumors," Irene says, abandoning her own meal to drape an arm over the back of her chair.  She lounges like she sits on a throne.  "Long ago, of someone Jim actually cared for.  He kept this person hidden, secret, protected.  I tried looking into it, once.  Attempting to get a little leverage and protection, but I found nothing.  Absolutely nothing."

"What rumors?" asks Molly. "What specifically did they say?"

"That Jim Moriarty loved one person in this world.  There was some speculation that this person was the same one who would occasionally torture for him, the real nasty stuff. His favorite threat was skinning."

Molly shakes her head.  "I will skin you," she says, drawing out the word _skin_ until Sherlock feels like he needs to clean his ears.

"Right.  He never did any skinning himself," Irene says, nodding.

"Didn't like to get his hands dirty," Molly mutters.

"But someone did.  Just no one could ever figure out who.  Personally, I thought it was Sebastian Moran, but you took him out in Serbia, did you not?"

Molly grimaces and nods.

"So not him.  Plus, I highly doubt he would be smart enough to take over British television, even if Jim left detailed instructions."

"Any other guesses on the identity of this mystery person?"

"None at all."

Molly slams her fists down on the table again, making silverware rattle, and pushes away her plate.  Sherlock is satisfied by how much she ate as it is nearly empty.

"How did he do it?" Sherlock asks.

"We do not know this person is a he," says Irene.

"How did this person take over British television for three minutes and thirty-one seconds?"

"It was all done remotely," says Molly.  "I've been able to come up with a technological explanation, but Moriarty's usual methods involved bribing and blackmail.  I interviewed hundreds of employees at hundreds of stations, but found nothing.  This could have been one person in a remote location, working with something Moriarty developed before he died.  Damn him!"  Molly lets out a frustrated groan and lets her head fall heavily to the table.  Sherlock rubs the back of her neck.

"So there is little we can do now but continue trying to find any sort of clue as to what this person has planned," says Irene, sounding as distressed and disheartened as Molly.

Sherlock wonders how she managed to keep her red lipstick so pristine all throughout the meal.

The kitchen falls silent, with Molly's head still on the table, Irene staring intently at her glass of wine, and Sherlock continuing to rub the back of Molly's neck.

She stands abruptly, her chair clattering to the floor behind her and causing both Irene and Sherlock to startle.  For one hopeful moment Sherlock believes that Molly has thought she was into some breakthrough.

"I'm tired," she says instead, tugging on Sherlock's arm until he stands.  Molly looks up at him, biting her lip, and he understands what she needs in this moment.  "We're going to bed.” 

“Irene, there is a guest room up the stairs. There are clean sheets in the cupboard," Sherlock says, feeling the need to play host even as Molly wraps an arm around his waist to better pull him towards the bedroom.  "The ones on the bed Greg slept on.  John's husband.  Haven't gotten around to changing them."

"Oh, kinky!" say Irene.

Sherlock is nothing but relieved when Molly gets him to her room and slams the door. 

* * *

 

"Are you angry?" Molly asks as she rolls off him sometime later. 

Sherlock is still dazed by his orgasm and cannot even really remember what anger feels like.  "What?" he manages through his labored breathing.

Molly shakes her head and cuddles into his side.  "You're brain is useless after you come.  Personally, I take it as a compliment."  She kisses his chest.

It takes Sherlock no less then twelve minutes for his mind to clear enough to understand what Molly was asking.  "Am I angry?" he repeats, tucking the blankets more firmly around them as the sweat cools on his skin and he remembers that it is frigid and January.  "About The Woman?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Molly replies, using that tone that makes it clear that she is finding him extraordinarily dim witted.  "Because she is here with no warning and I allowed you to believe her dead."

Sherlock sighs and considers.  "No," he decides, mostly because he is tired of being angry with Molly.

"Oh," says Molly, sounding surprised in a way she rarely does.  "Good."

"Did you love her?" Sherlock asks, even if he'd rather not know the answer.

"Almost," she replies.

And Sherlock understands this too.  She almost loved Irene like he almost loved Tomi.  Without the experience of knowing Molly his whole life, of being her best friend and family, the love he felt for Tomi would have been adequate. 

"Well, I fully understand your attraction to her now.  There is something highly compelling about her in person that simply does not translate to the papers."

“No.” Molly sits up and although it is too dark to see properly he can feel the severity of her scowl. ”Just no.  By saying you understand my attraction you are essentially declaring your own attraction and just no.  Do not go there.  Now. I have not slept properly in upwards of six days.  Do you think you can keep your bloody gob shut for a few minutes so I can catch up?"

He chuckles and pulls Molly back down.  She settles against his chest and sighs happily.  "I love you too, Mo."

* * *

 

“You’ve such lovely skin, Sherlock,” Janine says, tracing his knuckles where they stay, tied firmly down onto an arm rest. “Pale and soft. Just lovely. Did you know it is possible to peel it all off? Skin, I mean.”

Janine delicately eats her soup.

“I suppose I did,” Sherlock replies. The fear and nausea is disgusted by whatever drugs she feeds him. Or perhaps after all this time he’s simply gotten used to living in constant terror with Britney Spears singing in the background and Janine speaking to him as if they are friends.

“Course you do. Pathologist and all,” Janine says, flashing him a smile. “I’ve done it before, you know. Peeled off the hands like gloves, wore them for a bit until Jim made me stop. Had to cut off the hands first though. Didn’t much enjoy all the accompanying screaming. There is delightful wailing and awful screeching, and this fellow was just the worst.”

And just when Sherlock thought he was used to Janine and the casually way she talks of her depravity, he is shocked anew, because he believes her every word. She is honest and she is terrible and Sherlock is once more overwhelmed by fear.

His captor has peeled the skin from human hands and worn it like gloves. His captor loves his smooth, pale knuckles.

"You are looking at me like you think I'm crazy," she murmurs.

She just described in detail how she enjoys wearing people skin, but Sherlock makes no comment.

"I'm not crazy, not like Jim was,” she insists, talking quietly and absently stirring her soup.  “He had goals and plans and ambitions all designed to feed his crazy. But I don't.” 

For a long moment, she is quiet, lost in memory. Silence has been his best tool so far in surviving Janine, and he stays quiet.

“You have impulses, don't you Sherlock?” She glances up suddenly, as if just recalling that she is not alone.  “Even you with your rigid, stodgy, private school upbringing and your absolute tosser of a brother, you have to have _impulses_.  Personally, I love my impulses.  I get them often, you know, that's why Jim never kept me around for his serious plans.  Because I get an impulse and I've always given in.  Every single time, every single impulse."

“Like when you were eight,” he replies, dazed and trembling. “Like when you killed your mother.”

“Exactly!” Janine says, smiling as she points her soup spoon at him. “Glad to know you’ve been listening. What a delightful doll you are, Sherl.”

* * *

 

"It has been a month with not a peep from the fake Moriarty," Sherlock says as he waits for Molly to wrap a scarf around her neck and zip up her jacket.  "Can I still not go out on my own?"

"No," says Molly, obviously irritated by this frequently occurring conversation. “You are the reason Moriarty didn’t succeed in besting me and therefore you will be critical to the plans of this current threat, whoever they maybe. How many times must I explain this to you, you great bloody moron?”

"You two.  Bickering like an old married couple.  Adorable."  Irene offers her commentary from where she is lounging on the sofa with a paper.

"Why is she still here?" Sherlock asks, as he has asked every morning that Irene's been here.  Although she disappears for days at a time, following leads or off doing whatever Molly has her doing, she still seems to spend far more time than necessary in 221B.

"Why are you here?" Irene counters.  "Are you finally admitting that spending every night here means that you've moved in?"

"I have not moved in!  Molly, why is she still here?"

Molly sighs.  "Irene, leave."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, this is essentially a safe house and someone out there is probably looking to kill me.  I like it here."

Molly looks up at Sherlock, shrugging.  

"You know I'm your new best friend, Sherlock," Irene says.  "No use whining about it." 

"Can we go?  I'm going to be late," Sherlock says, turning back to Molly.

She rolls her eyes and takes his hand.  "I've been waiting on you."

* * *

 

The one positive of Molly's decree that Sherlock must constantly be babysat when he is not at 221B or Bart's is that Molly takes it upon herself to be that babysitter as often as she can manage it.  When she escorts him to work she will stay in the hospital for the majority of the day, if no desperate, pathetic leads come up for her to check out or if Sally isn't dragging her away to look at some fresh crime scene.

Today is a slow one and Molly is apparently feeling mopey, as she seems unwilling to be out of the same room as Sherlock.  They eat lunch on the small loveseat in Sherlock's office.  At least Sherlock eats while Molly pouts.

"I am such a failure," Molly says with a groan.  "A whole month, some odd days, and nothing.  I haven't found a single thing!  A single lead.  I am the world’s worst consulting detective. I’m never going to get that bloody pardon and you are probably going to end up dead and it will all be my own bloody fault!”

There is little Sherlock can do but rub her back, assuring her with whispered endearments that he has absolute faith in her. Absolute faith.

* * *

 

"Why does Molly Hooper get all the good things?" Janine poses the questions casually over breakfast, oatmeal today with dried cranberries and brown sugar.

Sherlock blinks at her, as he is apt to do, more focused on how very strange it is to eat something that is not wholly a solid or a liquid.  Chewing is a very odd sensation.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that it is the sedative Janine is keeping him on – not strong enough to knock him out, but plenty to keep him loopy and confused – that has him more interested in chewing or not really chewing oatmeal then he is in listening to Janine talk about Molly.

If there is one thing that's been clear from the beginning of his time (days? weeks?  months, perhaps) he's been Janine's prisoner, it's that this is all about Molly.

"She got my brother.  Got him all... distracted.  Got him to die.  How did she get you too?  You're so lovely and so kind.  How'd she get you?"

"I got her," he mumbles, lips feeling far larger then normal.  "Some twist of good fortune, got me Molly.  A privilege, a privilege, had Molly allowing me to get her."

Janine turns absolutely fuchsia, the color beautiful on her in contrast to her long, dark hair, and Sherlock realizes too late that somehow for the first time in all his days or months or years as her prisoner, he's managed to say the wrong thing.

Janine says nothing as she stands abruptly.  She unties Sherlock's left hand with sure, quick movements, and then flips his hand, pushing back his shirtsleeve to expose his pale forearm before securing his hand once more. There is a knife in her hand, flashing sliver and glinting in the morning sun shining through the windows. Sherlock cannot understand where she gets it from, nor does he understand her intent until the knife slices his skin, his blood red and too bright for his dulled brain to truly comprehend.  It doesn't hurt as much as it should, but the pain is enough to make him scream as Janine holds his arm steady with one hand and continue to strip his skin with the other.  She smiles down at his arm, his blood, the practiced way she moves her knife as if she is peeling an apple.  She breathes deeply and smiles and her facial expression reminds him of High Molly, out of her head on heroin and stars in her eyes.

When she finishes, there are two large letters on the underside of his forearm, red and angry even when the bleeding stops.

_JM_

"There," she coos, fingers tracing her initials.  "I think I'll keep you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re a pretty screamer with pretty skin."

* * *

 

"Yes, Mary," he says into his mobile, somehow managing not to groan in frustration.  It was probably unwise to agree to spend his day off with the now-bedridden mother of his niece or nephew.  "Scones.  I know you want scones."

"Not just any scones.  The ones from Sully's."

"Sully's!  That's the opposite direction of your flat."

"Please, Sherlock?"

"Alright.  Yes.  Fine.  Just know that when you finally give birth I will be spoiling the child rather then you."

"Sounds fair.  See you soon.  Oh, and if that Thai place is open, grab something spicy."

Sherlock sighs.  "The Thai place will not be open. It is far too early for the Thai place to be open."

"Just look!  Okay, bye bye!"

Mary hangs up and Sherlock sighs, wrapping a scarf around his neck and donning his coat.  The weather makes Sherlock want to spend the day with his violin and Toby, but Mycroft's been nearly as preoccupied with the fake Moriarty as Molly and now that Mary is bound to her bed it's a bit of a problem. 

He's waiting for whoever his prison guards (Molly and Mycroft) arranged to escort him to Mary's flat when his mobile goes off again, Mycroft this time with a text.

_Come to Bart's immediately._

Sherlock frowns.  Surely Mary can't have gone into labor in the few seconds since they spoke and he's been pulling in more shifts than usual, for being at Bart's is preferable to being trapped alone at 221B. 

_It’s my day off.  Is Molly all right?_

_Physically, yes, but Magnussen has died rather suddenly.  You have an autopsy to complete._

He is forced to read the text from his brother four times all the way through before he gets it. What will this mean for Molly’s pardon, he wonders.

_Who's escorting me?_

_I doubled your protection.  Come on your own._

* * *

 

Sherlock nearly makes it all the way to Bart’s before he’s pulled into an alley, a needle sharp in his neck.  The drugs work quietly but he still is conscious enough to curse his own stupidity. Of course it wasn’t really Mycroft. Mycroft only texts when he’s at the dentist and who could go to the dentist at a time like this?

Molly is going to call him every synonym she can think of for idiot if he ever makes it out of this alive.

Sherlock is somewhat aware of being forced into a yellow car before the world goes dark.

* * *

 

Sherlock nearly sleeps through all the excitement, but for once there is something other than Britney Spears and Janine’s laughter in his ears, so he manages to get his eyes open.

Molly is before him, a vision despite the bags under her eyes and grease matting hair. There has never been anything as beautiful or powerful as Molly with her familiar red leather jacket and fierce expression, unwavering as she points a gun at Janine’s head. Under any other circumstance Sherlock would find her obvious fury and intent to kill concerning, but now he can do nothing but weep with relief.

Janine is on her knees before Molly, perfectly put together as always in a deep red dress. She looks up, expression serene, as if she is counting down the seconds until Molly pulls the trigger, as if her death couldn’t come soon enough.

In a moment of clarity unlike anything he’s experienced in the days or weeks or months as a captive, Sherlock understands that Janine wants to die, wants Molly to be the one to do it, and that if Sherlock allows Molly to pull the trigger, he will lose her. She will change and this time there will be no balance or a desire to be with Sherlock or anything at all that will make her feel again.

Killing faceless criminals in foreign countries is one thing, necessary as it may have been, but Molly spent the better part of a month with the woman who is now on her knees, begging for death. This will change her, ruin her, making her into the emotionless machine she’s never quite managed to be.

And Janine knows it.

“Molly,” he says, voice croaking and gravelly. She twitches slightly, glances at him once, but her hands never shake as she keeps the gun on Janine. “Molly, do not do this.”

“Don’t listen to him!” says Janine, her serenity slipping. “I’m a rabid animal that needs killing. This is the only way, Molly. I carved my initials into your Sherlock’s skin and I will take more if you let me live. Put one in me. Right between the eyes.”

“She hurt you, Sherlock,” Molly whispers, already cold and hard, far more emotionless than she was even when she returned from her exile or when her father died.

“Please,” says Sherlock, begging and crying. He’s still bound to his chair, unable to use touch to bring her back. “Please, Molly, please. Don’t do this. Don’t give her what she wants. _Please_.”

For a few long moments, there is silence and stillness. Not even Britney wails away in the background. Sherlock will not so much as breathe for fear that the ragged sound will prompt Molly to choose wrong.

Shoulders relaxing slightly, Molly takes a step forward, cleanly pistol whipping Janine right in the forehead. With a pained cry Janine falls forward, clutching her face in her hands and crying into the carpet.

“No,” she chants. “No. No. No! I can’t do it myself.”

She looks up at Molly now, the gash in her forehead bleeding profusely and tears steadily streaming down her cheeks. Sherlock’s never seen anything so heartbroken and Molly takes a step back, as if Janine’s desperation will infect her. 

“Please, Molly Hooper,” Janine continues. “Please, you took everything from me. Took my brother. And I can’t do it anymore. Don’t want to continue living, don’t know how without Jim. And I just can’t kill myself, not like he did, so you’ve got to do it for me. Please, give me this one thing after you took everything else.”

Molly takes another step back, thoroughly disturbed by the display before her and it is an immense relief when Mycroft’s cavalry arrives, swarming the flat. Janine lets out a mournful wail, collapsing back to the carpet to whimper as her hands are cuffed behind her back.

Suddenly his hands and feet are free and Molly fills his vision, crying herself now as she traces every part of Sherlock as she looks for injury, lingering briefly on his bald head and bloody arm.

“You always miss something, Mo,” he murmurs, smiling at her.

“What?” she asks, nearly hysterical now that the danger’s been neutralized.

“It was Moriarty,” he says, grinning as she continues to touch him, real and solid and looking like complete shit. “Just a different Moriarty. Do you still love me now that I’m bald?”

Molly laughs, the sound strangled and frenzied. She kisses the top of his head and the feeling of her hot tears on his bare skin is an odd sensation indeed.

“Never again,” she murmurs. “You are never getting hurt. Never again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaxington.tumblr.com
> 
> Or we can be writing buddies for NaNo!  
> I'm jaxington on nanowrimo.org


	14. The Adventure of the Flying Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it folks. The last one. I am ever so sad to see it go.
> 
> Sorry for the delay. Did you miss me? For I missed you! If you suffer from carpal tunnel and write a lot of fanfic I highly recommend you do not go on a Christmas Day hike because you will slip on some ice and fall directly on your wrist. This is what happened to me and it's really slowed me down.
> 
> Thank you so so so much for reading this little fic that was originally only supposed to be a couple thousand words. All the lovely reviews inspired me to make it so long. Really, you only have yourselves to blame.
> 
> And extra big thanks to Monica, the best of all betas. It's been a genuine pleasure working with you!
> 
> Alright here we go. Enjoy.

Molly's singing and for one horrible moment Sherlock is convinced that he is still with Janine, Britney in the background, only now the pop star's voice is Molly's and Sherlock has truly lost his mind.

But the words are no tired old pop song, but a lullaby.  She's never been able to successfully carry a tune, but the wrong pitch is made up for by her sweetness.  Now she is quiet, barely enunciating and nearly humming. 

There is no conceivable circumstance that would have Molly singing to him so he opens his eyes to investigate, taking a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room.

It's something of a shock to find himself in a hospital bed, definitely a Bart’s hospital bed.  He's spent more time then he'd like in similar rooms, not for work but because Molly seems to perpetually be damaging her body.  It is very strange to be the one sleeping in the bed rather than worrying in a nearby chair.

There is a nearby chair in this room, but Molly is not in it. 

He glances about the room, still a bit too disoriented to understand where her voice is coming from.  Perhaps it really is all in his head.

"Molly?" he whispers.

The singing cuts off abruptly and then Molly is popping up beside him, getting to her feet from where she was apparently sitting on the floor by his bed.  Most bafflingly, there appears to be an infant in her arms.

Where did she get an infant?

"You're awake!" she says, talking with a bit too much volume.  Sherlock's ears feel fragile and the infant must feel the same because it squawks.  "Oh, bugger," mutters Molly, glaring at the baby.  "How am I supposed to touch you and hold this thing at the same time?"

He understands nothing about anything happening around him.  "Molly?" he manages.  It seems to be the only thing in his mind worth grasping onto.

"This is your niece," she murmurs, leaning down slightly so Sherlock can get a good look.  The baby is red, face squished, and it doesn't seem possible that a person could be so tiny.  "Elizabeth."

"That's your middle name, Molly."

Molly smiles and her eyes water as she rocks the little baby.  "Right you are.  So astute, my Sherlock."

"Don't tease me," he says, struggling with who he should be looking at, Molly or his new niece.  "My brain's not right.  How did I get here?"

"You don't remember?" Molly asks, wincing.

"No.  But you didn't kill Janine.  That I know for certain."

Molly is quiet for too long, staring intently at the baby in her arms.  "Yes, you were a bit of a mess after that.  All those drugs she was pumping into you.  Had to get that taken care of.  And the wound on your arm got infected.  The resulting fever was particularly nasty."

It comes to him in flashes.  "What?  How long?"

"Four and a half miserable days with Janine," says Molly, spitting out the name like it's poisonous.  "Three days here."

"Well, _shit_."

He expects Molly to laugh or at least to smile but she does no such thing.  She simply sits on the edge of the bed, freeing one hand from beneath the baby to lace her fingers together with Sherlock's.  After a few minutes of silence, during which time Sherlock struggles to piece together a timeline with his foggy fragmented memories of coming to Bart’s and delirium and his arm burning, the door flies open, smacking against a wall and making little Elizabeth let out a pathetic whimper.

"Molly!” snaps Mycroft, stomping over and plucking his daughter from Molly's arms.  "You are not to take this without permission.  Never again." 

Sherlock watches Mycroft melt, his expression and posture going soft as he regards the little thing in his arms, his daughter, a miracle that Sherlock has yet to really comprehend.

Molly rolls her eyes.  "I left a note.  And you should not call your daughter ‘this.'  She has a name now."

"Your middle name," says Sherlock, inordinately pleased with himself for remembering this detail.

"Oh," says Mycroft, having a hard time tearing his eyes from his daughter who is settled and sleeping in his arms.  "Sherlock.  You’re awake.  Do you think it’s for good this time?"

"Dunno," says Molly.  "I was wrong last time."

"What happened last time?"

"You seemed alright until your temperature spiked and you started muttering about Britney Spears," says Molly.

The reminder makes him shiver and now that Molly's arms are free to do so she takes both his hands in hers, her grip gentle and reassuring.

"I'm just a bit disoriented," mutters Sherlock, embarrassed for no discernable reason.  "And apparently I’m an uncle."

Mycroft gushes, listing off weight (half a stone) and hours in labor (fourteen) and an update on Mary's condition (healthy, resting).  Sherlock listens with half an ear, pleased to no longer be the center of attention. 

He would close his eyes and drift of again, rather than thinking of Janine, who seems to be lurking somewhere in the back of his mind, smiling and friendly, wistfully remembering the feel of human skin from the inside out, worn as a fashion accessory. 

"She's beautiful, Mycroft," he manages to reply at the right time and his brother beams before he seems to remember where Sherlock is and what he's been through.  

It is at this time that he notices something warm and soft brushing his ears. Not his hair, as Janine took that right off. He would reach up to investigate himself, but continuing to hold Molly’s hands is a much more appealing option. “Am I wearing a hat?”

For some unfathomable reason, this inquiry has Molly blushing.

“It’s that dreadful dear stalker,” mutters Mycroft.

“I didn’t want you to get cold!” Molly squeaks.

“Really?” Sherlock asks. “Or could you just not stand the sight of my naked scalp? Shaved free of the hair you love so much.”

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolds in a tone he typically reserves for Molly.

“You really must leave the deductions to the professionals,” she says as she tosses the hat in question to the foot of the bed and makes a big show of staring intently at his bald head.

“Oh,” mutters Sherlock. “Right. Sorry.”

“You gave us quite a fright,” Mycroft whispers after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

“Sorry,” replies Sherlock.

“If any one is at fault here it is _me_ ,” says Molly with such self-loathing unlike anything he’s heard from her in years. “Stop bloody apologizing.”

“Molly—“ Sherlock tries to comfort her, to dissuade her of this notion and reassure her that only Janine is at fault, and perhaps Sherlock a bit himself, but she cuts him off.

“No! I was so enthralled with Magnussen, I totally failed to see a fucking Moriarty right under my fucking nose!”

She slams a fist into his mattress and Sherlock’s heart rate picks up, his breath coming in shallow. Around him, monitors beep.

“Molly,” says Mycroft in warning, clutching his daughter to his chest.

“I spent a month with her, Mycroft,” Molly says. She is calmer now, her fingers rubbing soothing circles at his wrist, and Sherlock finds breathing to come easier with each passing moment. “It’s all obvious, now. The similar mannerisms and speech patterns.   I always miss something. And this was a huge something.”

“It was me,” Sherlock says, his voice raspy. “I left the flat on my own, though you both explicitly forbade me from doing so.”

“Yes, why did you leave? When we’d arranged for John to escort you?” asks Mycroft.

Sherlock winces and then begrudgingly admits his own stupidity, detailing how easily he believed Mycroft to be truly texting him, asking him to come to Bart’s alone.

"We were distracted," Molly replies.  He expects her to snap at him, rolling her eyes and calling him an idiot, but instead she shudders, her mouth a thin, grim line. She sits on the edge of his bed and looks at his hands.  

“By what?” Sherlock asks.

"Magnussen did die rather suddenly, as Janine indicated in her text,” explains Molly. “Mycroft and I were distracted by the disabled video surveillance in Magnussen’s room. And then the video Janine shot herself, sent to my phone, in which she waved and blew kisses at the camera before stabbing Magnussen directly in the heart."

Sherlock is suddenly cold and shaking, his stomach rolling.  He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to determine why he is unable to breathe as machines take up their beeping around him. His chest feels too small to hold his lungs.

"Oh no," squeaks Molly.  Her arms around him are a small comfort, but she feels too far away.  "Sherlock!"

There is talk of possible posttraumatic stress disorder and when Sherlock is calm once more he recognizes the signs of his own panic attack. He lets Molly ask the questions as the doctor drones on, detailing possible symptoms and ways to deal with whatever arises.

Sherlock just wants to go home.

* * *

“Is it nightmares?”

Sherlock startles from his position curled up in Molly’s chair, where he’s spent the morning staring out the window and stewing in his misery.

Last week Britney Spears came on the radio mid-autopsy, setting back months of recovery and resulting in a panic attack so severe he cannot even fully remember it beyond the utter certainty that he was going to die, right there in his morgue, already surrounded by the dead.

Still shaky and hiding away in 221B, he fought this morning with Molly, insisting that she take a case and stop coddling him. He was much crueler then he meant to be, taking out his frustration on her, and he was relieved when she slammed out of the flat because it kept him from saying more he would regret.

It is not a good day and the first appearance of Irene Adler since The Janine Business is the last thing he’d like to deal with.

“Go away,” he says, turning back to the window, watching happy, normal Londoners living their happy, normal lives on the street below.

“It was nightmares for me.” Irene takes the seat at his side and he doesn’t even bother asking her how she managed to get past the ridiculous security system that Mycroft neglected to remove after Janine was apprehended. “And Mrs. Hudson let me in. It was nothing particularly interesting. Your landlady simply likes me.”

Sherlock sighs. Irene lets him have some silence, allowing him to adjust to her presence. She makes tea, but Sherlock has none. He simply must prepare his own food and drink, to know exactly what’s in it.

“It still is nightmares for me,” Irene says as if long minutes have not passed since she started this conversation. “Sometimes.”

“The dreams are unpleasant,” Sherlock concedes. “But the panic attacks are unbearable.”

“Ah,” says Irene, nodding and sipping her tea.

There is more. His lack of appetite and how horrible he’s been to Molly. How sometimes he will smell Janine’s perfume and how difficult it is to convince himself that he is no longer there, strapped to that rolling chair. How he is unwilling to hold his niece or John and Greg’s daughter, Margaret, because he is convinced he will hurt them in some incomprehensible, ill-defined way.

“What did you do?” Sherlock asks. It seems strange that Irene of all people is getting him to talk about it when countless others tried and failed, but admitting to nightmares seems a monumental thing for the mysterious Adler and Sherlock finds himself curious. “To get rid of the dreams?”

Irene smiles ruefully and lights a cigarette. Sherlock does not even care that Molly will smell the smoke and be cross.

“I changed my name, changed my face, and became a completely different person, an impenetrable person. All in all, I do not recommend this strategy,” Irene says.

When she hands him the cigarette he takes it, sighing as the nicotine hits him.

“No?” he asks.

“It’s rather lonely,” Irene confesses. “And the dreams never fully left me. Plus, Molly likes the person you are.”

Sherlock grunts and refuses to give back the cigarette. He uses the cold tea Irene made him as an ashtray.

“If I could go back,” she says, “I would talk to a professional. Hash it all out. Learn to live with it rather than hiding during the day and dreaming at night.”

Sherlock blows out smoke. “I think you’re attempting to manipulate me, Ms. Adler.”

Irene laughs. “Very astute, Mr. Holmes. But for once I’ve spoken nothing but the truth. Have you seen a therapist?”

He shakes his head. Seeing a therapist would require talking to a therapist and talking to a therapist would require thinking about his time in that apartment. He is barely keeping himself from unraveling completely, and he’s only managing that by actively not thinking about any of it.

Molly’s given him names and made appointments and even tried to trick him into several sessions with a therapist. This perhaps is the biggest reason for the distance between them, along with the way she’s completely put her life on hold to coddle him.

It’s been nearly four months. This state he resides in is completely unacceptable and pathetic after all this time. Four months and Sherlock can barely manage a shift at Bart’s and Molly’s taken only the one case this morning.

“It’s a bit hot for long sleeves,” Irene says. “Isn’t it?”

“So you’ve heard, then?” he mutters. “Exactly what happened?”

“Oh, I hear everything, Mr. Holmes. And I know I should not ask, but that will not stop me. May I see?”

Sherlock showers with his eyes closed and refuses to let Molly pull off his shirts at night, despite his long time preference for sleeping in only his pants, but he is overcome with the urge to roll up his sleeve and shove this ugliness in the face of Ms. Adler, who is so calm and so collected and so beautiful, despite her claim of nightmares.

“JM,” Irene murmurs when she gets a good look at the scar on his arm. The skin is mostly smooth and has healed amazingly well, given all the trouble it caused him when it was fresh.

But no matter how healed it might appear, there is still a clear J and a clear M imprinted on his forearm like a brand.

“I’ve an idea,” says Irene, grinning wickedly.

* * *

“You made dinner,” Molly says as she enters the bedroom. It’s late, but Sherlock loathes sleeping, especially without Molly to wake him when he cries out, so he is up reading, Toby curled on his chest.

“I did,” Sherlock replies as Molly dumps her leather jacket on the floor and kicks off her shoes.

“I take it that means you ate dinner,” Molly says.

In all the strangeness and action of the day, Sherlock forgot that they started this morning with a somewhat nasty fight, but Molly’s tone reminds him. She is wary and slightly defensive.

Perhaps if she inquired on his eating habits this morning like she is now he would’ve snapped at her, informing her that it’s none of her bloody business what he eats and isn’t she a right hypocrite, with the way she neglects to feed herself mid-case.

It should be him, making sure Molly eats, not the other way round.

But he spent a very strange day with Irene and he finds himself less angry and less jittery than he has in months, so tonight he understands Molly’s concern.

“Yes,” he says, watching Molly’s shoulders relax. “I ate dinner. You’re back earlier than I expected. Simple case?”

“Quite,” Molly says. “Not even worth talking about, really. Morstan could’ve actually solved in on her own with only the pack of idiots, but for a first case back since… well, best to start with something small I suppose.”

“Right,” Sherlock replies, at a loss for what else to say. Molly’s trailed off _since_ hangs between them as something they absolutely do not discuss, despite Molly’s half-hearted attempts to do so when he first came back to Baker Street after the hospital.

Molly hesitates beside the bed for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth, and making her mind up about something. Abruptly she marches up to the bed, leaning over Sherlock and kissing his forehead before fleeing to the bathroom.

He wonders if she’s noticed that he’s not wearing a shirt.

But it’s Molly. Of course she’s noticed.

* * *

 

She crawls into bed, freshly showered and smelling of his shampoo. Without a word she presses close to his side and brings his left arm into her lap, flipping it to study the bandage on the underside of his forearm.

“May I?” she whispers.

“Yes,” he says, heart hammering in her chest. It is strange to feel nerves without the accompanying panic. But this is Molly. He can fret over her reaction without drowning in anxiety.

“Oh,” she says when she gets the bandage off, revealing the fresh, oozing tattoo beneath. The J is completely obscured by a series of curving, spiraling blank lines that curl next to and on top of the M. The M has been filled with black ink as well, but instead of being the end of Janine’s initials, it forms the beginning of Molly’s. His forearm now reads MH, bracketed by black lines that are elegant and sinuous and most importantly obscure the scared J of Janine. Reclaiming these scars has made the marks seem smaller somehow and he can look at the tattoo without being transported to that posh flat.

“Well?” asks Sherlock. “What do you think?”

Molly presses a kiss to the tender skin just next to his new tattoo and then carefully fixes the bandage.

“I suppose this means we’re no longer in a fight,” Molly says. There are tears in her eyes and she stares straight ahead.

“I’d rather not be,” Sherlock replies, letting his arm rest in her lap. “Although I said awful things this morning, Molly, and I’m so sorry. I don’t know where it comes from, when I say I don’t need you. Because I do. Truly.”

Molly takes a deep, shaky breath. “It’s not just for you. I haven’t been turning down cases to stay home with you or to follow you to Bart’s. That’s not the only reason I’ve been neglecting the work.”

“Oh?” asks Sherlock, genuinely shocked.

“It’s my fault. I pull you into horrible things because of my cases and you get hurt. And I’m terrified it will happen again. It can’t happen again, Sherlock. I can’t. I can’t.”

He pulls Molly into his chest and lets her cry. In these last months he’s offered no comfort because – blind, selfish, stupid man that he is – Sherlock did not know Molly needed any.

All this time she’s been suffering along with him, putting on a brave face for him and weathering Sherlock when he’d snap at her when she tried to make him a meal or when she was particularly gentle with him.

Of course he isn’t the only one traumatized. Of course.

“Molly?” he says when her tears dry out.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“About seeing a therapist.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’ll go if you go.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

* * *

 

Instead of packing away the plethora of books in the office, as Sherlock requested before he set off with John to deliver the first load of boxes to Baker Street in the government car Mycroft provided to compensate for his absence, Molly is sitting on the sofa with Mary, huddled over an old photo album. Beth is cradled in her arms, content to gnaw on Molly's fingers.

Several months of endless talking, EMDR, as well as hard, laborious _work_ , Sherlock no longer relives his time with Janine in such graphic detail.  He can eat in restaurants without fear of being drugged and the dreams become rarer with each passing night, but he still cannot manage to pull off that level of comfort when holding his niece like Molly can. 

She holds the child as if it is simply an extension of herself while Sherlock goes stiff when Mary places her daughter in his arms, still irrationally convinced that he will hurt the child in some way. 

Perhaps a panic attack will come upon him so suddenly that he drops Beth and she cracks her head open on the floor. Perhaps he’ll experience some sort of flashing back in Beth’s presence, lashing out and hurting the child when he means only to hurt Janine.

But with Molly around it is a fight to wrangle the baby from her arms, and no one seems to have noticed his discomfort yet.

"Molly," Sherlock says, irritated and resigned.  "This is not packing away the books.  They’re the last of it and I'd like to get this done at a decent hour, thank you."

"Sherlock's had the same face since he was ten," says Molly, ignoring him completely to point at something in the open book on Mary's lap.  "Even the cheekbones.  He was like a tiny grown up rather than a child."

"Sherlock, you were adorable," Mary says.  "But so serious!  And Molly, it looks like you were incapable of sitting still in most of these."

"Accurate," replies Molly, nodding.  "I loathed having my picture taken."

"You still loathe having your picture taken," grumbles Sherlock.

"But Mycroft insisted the housekeeper snap them constantly.  For Mummy.  Because she was gone so often," Molly says, smiling down at Beth as the baby makes a happy, gurgling sound.

"This is not packing away the books," Sherlock says again.  The books are as much Molly's as they are Sherlock’s, and during their uni years the ownership of specific volumes got blurry.  When Molly left, they never divided the collection, although Sherlock's suspected that Molly has used his shelves of books as a personal library for years, breaking in and taking what she needs when she needs it and leaving the odd new book in exchange.

It won't be necessary any longer.  What is his will now officially be hers.

"We’re taking a break, darling," drawls Molly.  "Do shut up about it."

"I could use a break," says John, helping himself to a glass of lemonade from the kitchen before joining the women on the sofa, sitting on Mary's other side and staring avidly at the photo album.  "It's hot as hell out there.  You picked a terrible time to move, mate."

"Tell me about it," mutters Molly. 

Sherlock's unwillingness to give up his flat, despite all of his nights spent with Molly at 221B, has irritated Molly and all their friends for months.  Part of him was waiting for her to change her mind, to leave him when she felt too close or to use cruel words to drive him away or to separate from him to supposedly keep him safe. 

He understands now that Molly's spent a good deal of her life terrified of Sherlock (trusting him, being with him, losing him) but if his kidnapping did not manage to scare Molly off again, then nothing will.  She offers him promises now and she's never done that before, not even when they were young and in love and together the first time. 

She talks of the future like it’s a given that Sherlock will be there with her.  She tells him when her dreams leave her frightened and angry, confessing that the urge to kill Janine in the most brutal way possible has not left her. She truly loves him and says so often.

And Sherlock has no need for this flat.

"Is that a sweater?" John asks as Mary turns the page.  Sherlock sits on the armrest by Molly and leans over to see the pictures of the first holiday they took with Molly, her first time at the beach when they were both twelve.  "Are you wearing a sweater?  In the middle of summer?  On the beach?"

Molly shrugs and reaches up to lay a hand on Sherlock's forearm, where his sleeves are rolls up to expose the H of Molly's initials inked into his skin.

"God, and look at Mycroft," Mary says with a laugh.  "In a swim suit.  So young and strapping."

Molly and Sherlock exchange a look, not understanding what Mary could find strapping about a young, pale, scowling Mycroft, but then again Sherlock still can't really believe that Mycroft managed to procreate, despite the evidence Molly is currently cradling to her chest.

They spend longer than Sherlock would like going through photo albums, but he finds himself enjoying it anyway.  With each photo Molly remembers the moment with excruciatingly precise detail.  Before him is the evidence that their shared history is just as important to Molly as it is to Sherlock, and Molly's enthusiasm for reminiscing now is something she typically reserves for particularly complex and brutal murders.

"Do you remember, Sherlock?" she asks, turning towards him constantly.  Sometimes he does, in detail as vivid as Molly, and sometimes he does not at all, but Molly seems to have done more than enough remembering for the pair of them.

John, who thought Molly simply knew Sherlock casually from Bart's for a great deal of time, seems particularly keen to hear every detail of Molly's every memory associated with every photo. Sherlock listens, leaning close to Molly and cooing down at his niece, held safely in her aunt's arms.

They do not finishing moving, as John bops off to meet Greg and their daughter, and Mary feels the need to leave also when Beth gets fussy, but the delay is worth it to hear Molly share her memories.

“You remembered all that,” Sherlock murmurs as they trudge up the stairs to 221B.

“Course I did,” Molly says with a snort. “I’d never delete it.”

* * *

 

"This is so dull, dull, dull," Molly says with a groan.  She drops her screwdriver to the wooden floor of John's old bedroom before flopping down on the floor herself.  She covers her face with her hands and Sherlock laughs at her histrionics.

"Buck up, my dear," he replies, turning back to affixing shelves to the wall.  They're nearly done converting the spare room into a sort of library/mini laboratory, but after hours of repetitive, manual labor, Molly's run out of patience.  "This needs doing."

"I need doing," she says, sliding on the wooden floor until she is close enough to rest her foot on Sherlock's arse.

"Molly."  He attempts to scold but her proximity is totally distracting.  "When I gave up my flat you promised you'd help me make this place more hospitable."

"It is perfectly hospitable."

"There are body parts in the fridge," Sherlock reminds her.  "In the morning we really must pick up a small one for your experimenting in here."

"You're going to buy me a science refrigerator?  Such a romantic, Sherlock Holmes."

He gives up on the shelving completely in an effort to prove it to her.

* * *

 

He bounces Beth on his knee as Margret crawls around at his feet and nearly a year after the nightmare that was Janine began with a terrifying New Years message, Sherlock is able enjoy his nieces without any of that illogical fear. He sleeps through most nights, rarely waking from a dream, sure that he is back in Janine's flat. When he goes a week without seeing Molly, he is comforted by Mary's texted updates informing him that Molly is simply absorbed in a case, instead of convincing himself that the very worst has befallen her – death, dismemberment, kidnapping.

"The take-away's getting cold," Greg mutters, falling into his husband’s chair and pouting at the football playing quietly on the television.

"You know how Molly is when she gets wrapped up in a case," Sherlock says.

"Yes, and John is incapable of saying no to her," Greg replies with a long-suffering sigh. Although he is as used to John disappearing as Sherlock is Molly, the take-away is getting cold and this is simply unacceptable to Greg. "He loves it though. The danger. I find it overrated. And exhausting."

Sherlock snorts and raises his own beer in Greg's general direction. "Hear, hear."

Despite Mary's texted assurances that they're nearly done, the evening stretches without the appearance of the crime-solving duo and their DI. Greg stops fretting over the food as the delightful children, more mobile now, both on the verge of taking their first steps, entertain them.

Watching the girls means there’s no need to make conversation, which is a positive as Sherlock's never managed to forgive Greg for _bloody shooting_ Molly.

Molly arrives first. Her typically light footing always changes when she gets to the stairs in their flat and she clomps up them, making more noise than seems possible.

She's staring intently at her mobile when she enters, and she ignores Greg's greeting as she immediately flees to the bedroom. Greg lets out another long-suffering sigh, but Molly emerges once more before there is time for comment. Now she is typing away on her mobile, her fingers not even pausing when she leans close to Sherlock to kiss his cheek.

"Where’re the others?" Greg asks. "John? Mary?"

"Following my cab in that bloody police vehicle," Molly mutters, already on her way back to the bedroom.

"Oh no," Greg says with a groan. "She's found another case already, hasn't she? And just a few days before Christmas, too."

John and Mary tromp up the stairs a few minutes later and the take-away is reheated. They eat sprawled out on couches, discussing the case and finalizing plans for the Christmas.

Mycroft arrives and although his brother never quite seems to fit in at 221B, with his perfect suits and serious expression, he picks Beth off the floor with ease and eats right off Mary's plate.

The whole thing is rather cozy and Sherlock smiles into his curry, pleased that his life has settled into a unique rhythm, full of spontaneous dinners at Baker Street and babysitting, autopsies and Molly wrapping herself around him in the middle of the night after a long case, waiting patiently until sunrise for Sherlock to make her breakfast.

With a thump Molly dumps her old rucksack at his feet, pulling Sherlock out of his pleasant musings.

He knows this rucksack and it lives in the back of their closet unless Molly needs it to travel. It is the rucksack from when she flew off to save Irene and when she disappeared for two years to take down Moriarty's network.

Sherlock scowls at it and then scowls at Molly, knowing that she will be departing in a matter of hours to parts unknown.

Lately life has felt stable and now suddenly Molly is ruining it with the damn traveling rucksack, fleeing so close to Christmas.

"There's a plate for you in the kitchen," says Greg. "Probably gone cold now. Again."

Molly nods her thanks and makes her way towards the kitchen. She shoves three giant bites of food into her mouth and then hops up to stand on the counter so she can rummage in a high cabinet. Apparently finding whatever she was searching for, Molly comes back to join the party, plate of food in one hand. She flops into Sherlock's lap and progresses to eat with unnecessary speed and volume.

"Going somewhere?" asks Mycroft, eyeing the rucksack.

It’s a good sign that Mycroft is equally in the dark, as it means that this case is from a private source rather than the government and should therefore be less dangerous. Or so Sherlock hopes.

Molly nods.

"And where, may I ask, are you going?" asks Mycroft so Sherlock won't have to.

"Hawaii."

"You’re going to Hawaii? Two days before Christmas? What will Mummy say?"

"She'll be rather disappointed, I would imagine," says Molly, primly dabbing a napkin at the corners of her mouth now that she's inhaled her supper. "I'll bring back some sort of over priced, overly flashy, overly American gift for her."

"What's the case, then?" asks John.

"Some five star, world class, beach resort has been unable to stop a jewel thief, despite top of the line security. Should be completely dull. It's halfway solved already."

"Then why go?" asks John. "You hate dull and it's so close to the holidays."

"In addition to excessive financial compensation when the case is solved, they’re also offering ten days in the honeymoon suite, free of charge. And airfare."

"Well that's just lovely," Sherlock mutters. He considers standing abruptly and dumping Molly off his lap and onto the floor, but somehow he refrains. "I hope you have a fabulous time while the rest of us suffer through Mummy's drinking and complaining of your absence."

Molly snaps her head around to frown at him. For a few long seconds she studies his face as he glowers at her.

"Really. Sherlock," she says with an eye roll. "You’re so slow. Good thing I somehow find it endearing." She stands and pulls two passports – typically kept in the high kitchen cabinet for no other reason than Molly's particularities – from her jacket pocket.

He snatches them from her hand, somewhat surprised to see Molly's legal name accompanying her photograph. She's got at least six others that Sherlock's seen, all the names strange and nothing close to Molly Hooper.

The second is his own passport.

"Oh." For a moment he is dismayed for by his own inability to keep up with Molly in moments like this, but then he is grinning, delighted by the prospect of a true beach holiday with Molly, something they have not done since they were children. "But Christmas—“

"We'll make it up to Mummy. This lot sees plenty of us and can go without this year."

"Ten days? I'll have to—“

"You already took the time off for Christmas and I've taken care of the few extra days with Mike."

"Oh. But—“

"Enough, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson has agree to feed Toby and a cab will be here in less than thirty minutes. Perhaps that time would be better spent packing than yammering? I’ve already laid out your swim trunks and sunblock on the bed. Chop chop."

* * *

 

Somewhere over the ocean, Molly cuddles up under his arm. Her eyelids are heavy and he watches, privately guessing how many minutes will pass before she loses the battle with sleep. By his count, she’s gone three days without and will in all likelihood sleep her way to Hawaii.

“You know,” she murmurs, “I get offers like this all the time. Easy cases in fancy international places.”

“Oh?”

“I think I’ll take you everywhere, Sherlock Holmes. Everywhere you ever wanted to go.”

He presses his answering smile to her temple as she finally drifts off.

Somewhere over the ocean he adds spontaneous trips to Everywhere to the unique rhythm of their lives, along with long nights in the Bart’s lab and their nieces, crime and reading the same book together on rainy afternoons, Molly waiting patiently for Sherlock to catch up before she turns to the next page.

He finds it suits him just fine.


End file.
